Notre - Dame De Paris Vol. I

PUBLISHED BY

ESTES AND LAURTAT

NOTRE-DAME DE PARIS

BY

VICTOR HUGO

nXUSTRATED BY BtELER, ROSSI AND DE MYKBACH

TRANSLATED BY A. L. ALGER

TWO VOLUMES IN ONE

Copyright^ iSSS
By Estes and Lauriat

John Wilson and Son, Cambridch

years ago, while visiting, or rather exploring,
Xolre-I >£11110, the aulliur of this hook discovered in
a-ii cj’hscnre corner (.»f one of the towers this word, carved
njMJji tlie wall : ^

Tiiest^ (ireadv ohuracters, black with age and cut deep into
tin* stfOKj with, the peculiarities of form and aiTangeinent
cuiiiiiioii to (Jotliic ctiligraphy that marked tliem the work
of some !mnd in the Middle Ages, and above all the. sad
and mnurnful meaning which they expressed, forcibly
impr(*ssed the author*

He questioneil himself, he tried to divine what sad soul
was loatli to fjuit tlie earth without leaving behind this
brand of crime or mismy upon the brow of the old churclt.

6

Since then the wall has been whitewashed or scra])eil
(I have forgotten which), and the inscription lias \'aiiished*
For this is the way in which, for some two lumdivd years,
we have treated the wonderful churches of the Middle Ages.
They are mutilated in every part, inside as well as out.
The priest whitewashes them, the archdeacon scrapes tliem ;
then come the people, who tear them down.

So, save for the frail memory which the author of this
book here dedicates to it, nothing now remains of the
mysterious word engraved upon tlie dark tower of Xotre-
Dame, nothing of the unknown fate which it summed up
so sadly. The man who wrote that word upon the wall
faded away, many ages since, amidst passing generations
of men ; the wu)rd in its turn has faded from the clnircli
wall : the church itself, nerhans. will soon vanish
earth.

CONTENTS.

BOOK FIRST.

' Page

I. The Great Hall . . . . 9

n. Pierre Gringoire . ..... . . . . . . . 30

in. The Cardinal . . . . .... ..... . 45

lY. Master Jacques Coppenole . . . . . . . . . 55

Y. Quasimodo 69

YL Esmeralda . . . . . . . . . . ... . . 79

BOOK SECOND.

I. Prom CriARYBDis to Scylla 83

XL The Greve 88

III. Besos para Golpes 92

lY. The Inconveniences op Following a Pretty Wom.an

IN THE Street at Night 107

Y. The Rest of the Inconveniences 115

YL The Broken Jug 119

Yll. ‘A Wedding Night . 147

BOOK THIRD.

II. A Bird’.s^eye A^ie%v op Paris 174

.COKTEHTS.

BOOK EOUETH.

^'.TACS'E'

/ I: ' .KiNB SoU'IiS . , V: ' . . -.;/ 201l

■ ; IL ' , Glaube; F.kollo ■■ ■ .. ■ . . ; - . . : . * . . . ' 215

ILL Immakis pEcoiiis Gustos, Immais^ioh Ipse . . * . . 22‘i

,Bog Am> Hrs Master .G;. , V *, , . ' . . .234

V. xMore about Claude Frollo . . 23?

'Vi.';'' Uepopulaeity ^ ■ '247'

BOOK FIFTH.

Abbas.' Eeati.;Maetini ' ■ v'.';''/.'.-,. . ■ .'./'.a.' . .'iS©

IL The Ox\k will kill the Other 26G

BOOK SIXTH.

L An Impartial Glance at ^ the Ancient MAcasfRACY. 28S

HI. The Story of a IFjjeatkn Cake 312

IV. A Tear for a Drop of Water 349

V, End of the Story of the Cake . 350

CONTENTS

BOOK SEVENTH.

, . PAGE

I. On the Banger of Confiding a Secret to a Goat 1

II. Showing that a Priest and a Philosopher are

TWO VERY Different Persons . 23

III. The Bells 38

lY. ’ANATKH 42

V. The Two Men dressed in Black . 63

YI. The Effect produced by Seven Oaths in the Open

Air 72

YIL The Spectre Monk . 80

YTIL The Advantage of Windows Overlooking the

Elver . . . . 93

BOOK EIGHTH.

I. The Crown changed to a Dry Leaf 106

II, SfiquEL TO the Crown changed to a Dry Leaf . 121
HI. End of the Crown changed to a Dry Leaf ... 129

lY, Lasciate Ogni Speranza . 134

Y. The Mother 156

YL Three Men’s Hearts differently coNkSTituted . . 163

j300K NINTH.

■ ■ ; .PAGE

: . 1. ' VBelieium; . . , . . . .. ■. , , . . - IBS'

II. Dei-oiuied, Blind, Lame 206

HI. Beae ' 213

iV. Eautuekwake and Cbystal 317

V. The Key to the Pokte-IIouhe 2;j0

VI. The Key to the Pohte-Houge { CoiUmmd ) . . , , 33/

BOOK TENTH.

I. Ghingoirb has several Capital Ideas in Succession

IN THE Hue des Beknardins 3i3

11. Turn Vagabond! .359

in. Joy Forever!

IV. An Awkward Friend 275

V. The Eetreat where Louis of France vSavs hls

Prayers 301

VL ‘‘The Chive in the Cly” . . , 350

VII Chateaupers to the Hescue 353

BOOK ELEVENTH.

L The Little Shoe . . .... . . . . . . 357

11. La Creatuka Bella Bianco Vestita 407

III Marriage ot Phcerus PiO

IV. Marriage of Quasimodo 422

Note added to the Last Edition ........ 427

NOTRE-DAME DE PARIS

VOL. I.

THE GREAT HALL.

T hree hundred and forty-eight years, six months, and
nineteen days ago to-day the Parisians were waked
by the sound of loud peals from all the bells within the
triple precincts of the City, the University, and the Town.

And yet the 6th of January, 1482, ismot a day of which
history takes much note. There was notliing extraordi-
nary about the event which thus set all the bells and the
citizens of Paris agog from early dawn. It was neither an
attack from tlie Picards or the Burgundians, nor some

10

NOTRE-DAME,

sluine carried in procession, nor was it a studunr rin ull-
ill the Vilie de Laas, nor an entry ol* our greatly to he
dreaded lord the king/’ nor even the wholesale shui.ehier
of a band of thieves before the Palace of Justice. Xeillier
wa-s it tlie arrival, so frequent during the iifteeiith centur}-,
of some plumed and laced embassy. It was scarcely t wo
days since the last cavalcade of this sort, that of the Flem-
ish ambassadors empowered to arrange a marriage bef.wcen
tlie .Dauphin and Margaret of Flanders, liad entered Paais,
to the great annoyance of Cardinal Bourbon, wlio, to pleasii
the king, was forced to smile upon all this rustic rout of
Flemish burgomasters, and to entertain theni at liis own
mansion with ‘‘a very line morality and three,” wliile a
driving rain-storm drenched the splendid tapestries at iiis
door.

Tliat which “stirred the emotions of the whole populace
of Paris,” as Jehan de Troyes expresses it, on January 0, was
the double festival; celebrated from time immemorial, of
Epiphany and the Feast of Fools.

Upon that day there was to be a bonfire at the Grhve, a
Maypole at the Braque chapel, and a mystery or* miracle
play at the Palace of Justice. All these things had been
proclaimed at the crossroads, to the sound of trumpets, by
tlie provost’s men, in fine coats of purple camlet, witli big
white crosses on the breast.

A crowd of citi;5eiis with their wives and daugliters liad
therefore been making their way from every quarter, to-
wards the places named, ever since early dawn. Each had
decided for himself in favor of the bonfire, tlio Miiypole,
or the mystery. It must be confessed, to the glory of the

THE GREAT HALL.

11

proverl)ial good sense of Parisian idlers, that the majority
of the crowd turned towards the bonfire, which was most
seasonable, or towards the miracle play, "vvhich was to be
performed in tlie great hall of the law courts, well roofed
in and between four walls ; and that most of the pleasure-
seekers agreed to leave the poor Maypole with its scanty
blossoms to shiver alone beneath the January sky, in the
cerneteiy of the Braf£ue chapel.

The people swarmed most thickly in the avenues lead-
ing to the law courts, because it was known that the
Flemish ambassadors who arrived two nights before pro-
posed to be present at the performance of the miracle play
and election of the Lord of Misrule, which was also to
take place in the great hall.

It was no easy matter to make a way into the great hall
upon that day, although it was then held to be the largest
enclosure under cover in the world (to be sure, Saiival had
not yet measured the great hall of the castle at Montar-
gis). The courtyard, filled with people, looked to the
spectators at the windows like a vast sea into which five
or six streets, like the mouths of so many rivers, con-
stantly disgorged new waves of heads. The billowing
crowd, growing ever greater, dashed against houses pro-
jecting here and there like so many promontories in the
irregular basin of the court. In the middle of the lofty
Gothic facade of the palace was the great staircase, up and
down which flowed an unending double stream, which,
after breaking upon the intermediate landing, spread in
Ijroad waves over its two side slopes ; the great staircase,
I say, poured a steady stream into the courtyard, like a

12

NOTRE-DAME.

waterfall into a lake. Shouts, laughter, anil tlie iraiup
countless feet made a great noise and a great. lmh-hui>.
From time to time the hubbub and the noise Avere rv-
doubled ; the current which bore this throng towards llir*
great staircase was turned back, eddied, and whirled.
Some archer had dealt a blow, or the horse of some jum-
vost’s officer had administered a few kicks to restore order:
an admirable tiudition, which provost lias bequeatlied. to
constable, constable to marslialsea, and marslialsea to our
present Parisian police.

At doors, windows, in gaiTets, and on roofs swarmed
thousands of good plain citizens, tpiiet, honest people, gaz-
ing at the Palace, watcliing the throng, and asking nothing
more ; for many people in Paris are quite content to look on
at others, and there are plenty who regard a wall behind
which something is happening as a very curious thing.

If it could be permitted to us men of 1830 to mingle
in fancy with those fifteenth-century Parisians, and to
enter with them, pushed, jostled, and elbowed, the vast hall
of the Palace of Justice, all too small on the 6th of Janu-
ary, 1482, the sight would not be without interest or charm,
and we should have about us only things so olrl a,B to .seem
brand-new.

With the reader’s consent we will endeavor to imagine
the impression he would have received with us in cros.sing
the tlireshold of that great hall amidst that mob in siii*-
coats, cassocks, and coats of mail.

And first of all there is a ringing in our ea.rs, a dimness
in our eyes. Above our heads, a double roof of poiiited
arches, waiiiscoted with carved wood, painted in azure,

THE GREAT HALL.

■IS''

sprinkled Avitli golden ileur-dedis ; beneath our feet, a,
pavement of black and white marble laid in alternate
blocks. A few paces from us, a huge pillar, then another
in all seven pillars down the length of the hall, supporting
the spring of the doable arch down the centre. Around the
iirst four columns are tradesmen’s booths, glittering with
glass and tinsel; around the last three, oaken benches
worn and polished by the breeches of litigants and the
gowns of attorneys. Around the hall, along the lofty wail,
between the doors, between the casements, between the
pillars, is an unending series of statues of all the kings
of France, from Pharamond down, — the sluggard kings,
wdth loosely hanging arms and downcast eyes ; the brave
and warlike kings, with head and hands boldly raised to
heaven. Then in the long pointed windows, glass of a
thousand hues; at the wide portals of the hall, rich doors
finely carved; and the whole — arches, pillars, walls, cor-
nices, wainscot, doors, and statues — covered from top to
bottom with a gorgeous coloring of blue and gold, which,
somewhat tarnished even at the date when we see it, had
almost disappeared under dust and cobwebs in the year of
grace 1549, when I3ii Breuil admired it from tradition.

Now, let us imagine this vast oblong hall, lit up by the
wan light of a January day, taken possession of by a noisy
motley mob who drift along the walls and ebb and flow
about the seven columns, and we may have some faint idea
of the general effect of the picture, whose strange details
we will try to describe somewhat more minutely.

It is certain that if Eavaillac had not assassinated
Henry IV., there would have been no documents relating

said documents;

accordingly no incendiaries, forced for want ot heltei
means to burn the Eolls OfKce in order to burn up the
documents, and to burn tlie Palace of Justice in oithu'
to burn the Eolls Oilice ; consequently, no iiru

ill 1618. Th,e old Palace would still be standing, with
its great liail ; I might say to iiiy reader, Go and look

15 :

:it il/' and \vc should thus both of us be spared tlie need,
— I of writing, and he of I’eading, an indifferent descrip-
tion; which p,!*oves this novel truth, — that great events
have incalculable results.

True, Eavaillac may very possibly have had no accom-
plices ; or liis accomplices, if he chanced t6 have any,
need have had no hand in the lire of 1618. There are two
otlier very plausible explanations: first, the huge ''star
of fire, a foot broad and a foot and a half high,” which
fell, as every one knows, fi’om heaven upon the Palace
after midnight on the 7th of March; second, Thdophile's
verses : —

“ 111 Paris sure it was a sorry game
Wlien, fed too lut witli fees, tlie frisky Dame
Justice set all her palace in a flame.”

Whatever we may think of this triple explanation — po-
litical, physical, and poetical — of the burning of the Palace
of Justice in 1618, one imfortunate fact remains; namely,
the fire. Very little is now left, thanks to this catastrophe,
and thanks particularly to the various and successive res-
torations which have finished what it spared, — very little
is now left of this first home of the King of France, of this
palace, older than the Louvre, so old even in the time of
Philip the Fair that search had to be made for traces of
the magnificent buildings erected by King Eobert and de-
scribed by Helgaldus. Almost everything is gone. What has
become of the chancery office, Saint Louis' bridal chamber;
the garden wiiere he administered justice, " clad in a cam-
let coat, a sleeveless surcoat of linsey-woolsey, and over it
a jnaiitlc of black serge, reclining upon carpets, witli Join-

16 :

'Homi-mME*

ville Where is the chamber of the Emperor Sigisinoiid,
that of Charles IV., and that of John Lackland ? Where
is tlie staircase from which Charles VL issued his <^dict
of amnesty ; the tiag-stoue upon which Marcel slew, in the
dauphin’s presence, Eobert of Clermont and the Marshal oi*
Champagne'; the wicket-gate where the bulls of Benedict
the antipope were destroyed, and through which departed
those who brought them, coped and niitrexl in mockery,
thus doing public penance throughout Paris; and the great
hall, with its gilding, its azure, its pointed arches, its stat-
ues, its columns, its great vaulted roof thickly covered
with carvings ; and the golden room ; and the stone lion,
which stood at the door, his head down, his tail between
his legs, like the lions around Solomon’s throne, in the
humble attitude that befits strength in tlie presence of jus-
tice ; and the beautiful doors ; and the gorgeous windows ;
and the wrought-iroii work which discouraged Biscoriiette ;
and Du Haney’s dainty bits of carving ? What has time
done, what have men done with these marvels ? What
has been given us in exchange for all this, — for all this
ancient French history, all this Gothic art? The heavy
elliptic arches of M. de Brosse, the clumsy architect of the
St Gervais portal, — so much for art ; and for liistory we
have the gossipy memories of the big pillar still echoing
and re-echoing with the tittle-tattle of the Patras.

This is not much. Let us go back to the genuine great
hall of the genuine old Palace.

The two ends of this huge parallelogram were occupied,
the one by the famous marble table, so long, so broad, and
so thick, that there never was seen, as the old Court EolLs

THE GREAT HALL.

express it in a style which would give Gargaiitua an appe-
tite, such another slice of marble in the world ; the other
by the chapel in which Louis XI. had his statue carved
kneeling before the Virgin, and into which, wholly indiffer-
ent to the fact that he left two vacant spaces in the pro-
cession of royal images, he ordered the removal of the
figures" of Charlemagne and Saint Louis, believing these
two saints to be in high favor with Heaven as being kings
of France. This chapel,, still quite new, having been built
scarcely six years, was entirely in that charming school of
refined and delicate architecture, of marvellous sculpture,
of fine, deep chiselling, which marks the end of the Gothic
era in France, and lasts until towards the middle of the
sixteenth century in the fairy-like fancies of the Eenais-
sauce. The small rose-window over the door was an es-
pecial masterpiece of delicacy and grace ; it seemed a mere
star of lace.

In the centre of the hall, opposite the great door, a
dais covered with gold brocade, placed against the wall,
to which a private entrance was arranged by means of a
window from the passage to the gold room, had been built
for the Flemish envoys and other great personages invited
to the performance of the mystery.

This mystery, according to custom, was to be performed
upon the marble table. It had been prepared for this
at dawn ; the superb slab of marble, scratched and marked
by lawyers* heels, now bore a high wooden cage-like scaf-
folding, "whose upper surface, in sight of the entire hall,
was to serve as stage, while the interior, hidden by tapes-
try liuiigiiigs, was to take the place of dressing-room for

18

NOTIiE-milE.

■ tliB/^actors^,^ ' pay-': ' A' ladder- placed . cmtside .-with,

frank simplicity formed the means of communication be-
tween the dressing-room and stage, its rough roiuids doing
service for entrance as well as exit. There was no char-
acter however unexj)ected, no sudden change, and no dra-
matic effect, but was compelled to climb this ladder. In-
nocent and venerable infancy of art and of machinery !

Four officers attached to the Palace, :forced guardians of
the people’s pleasures on holidays as on hanging days
stood bolt upright at the four corners of the marble table.

The play was not to begin until tlie twelfth stroke of
noon rang from the great Palace clock. This was doubt-
less very late for a theatrical performance ; but the am-
bassadors had to be consulted in regard to the time,

ISTow, this throng had been waiting since dawn. Many
of these honest sightseers were shivering at earliest day-
light at the foot of the great Palace staircase. Some in-
deed declared that they had spent the night lying across
the great door, to be sure of getting in first. The crowd
increased every moment, and, like \vater rising above its
level, began to creep up the walls, to collect around the
columns, to overflow the entablatures, the cornices, the
window-sills, every projection of the architecture, and
every bit of bold relief in the carvings. Then, too, dis-
comfort, impatience, fatigue, the day’s license of satire and
folly, the quarrels caused ever and anon ])y a sliarp elljow
or a hobnailed shoe, the weariness of waiting lent, long
before the hour when the ambassadors were due, an acid,
bitter tone to the voices of these people, shut up, pent
ill, crowded, squeezed, and stifled as they were. On every

THE GEEAT HALL.

19

IuurI were heard curses and complaints against the Flem-'
ish, the mayor of Paris, Cardinal Bourbon, the Palace
bailiff, Madame Margaret of Austria, the ushers, the cold,
the heat, the bad weather, the Lord of Misrule, the col-
umns, the statues, this closed door, that open window ; all to
the vast amuseiiieiit of the groups of students and lackeys
scattered through the crowd, who mingled their mischief
and their malice with all this discontent, and ad minis tered^
as it were, pin-pricks to the general bad humor.

Among the rest there was one group of these merry
demons who, having broken the glass from a window, had
boldly seated themselves astride tlie sill, distributing their
glances and their jokes by turns, within and without, be-
tween the crowd in the hall and the crowd in the court-
yard. From their mocking gestures, their noisy laughter,
and the scoffs and banter which they exchanged with
their comrades, from one end of the hall to the other, it
was easy to guess that these young students felt none of
the weariness and fatigue of the rest of the spectators, and
that they were amply able, for their own private amuse-
ment, to extract from what they had before their eyes a
spectacle quite diverting enough to make them wait pa-
tiently for that which was to come.

'' By my soul, it ’s you, Joannes Frollo de Molendino !
cried one of tliem to a light-haired little devil with a
Jiandsome but evil countenance, who was clinging to the
acantlnis leaves of a capital; ''you are v^ell named, Jehaii
dll Moulin, for your two arms and your two legs look like
tlie four sails iluttering in the wind. How long have you
been bore ?

20

NOlliE-DAME.

the foul fiend !” replied Joannes Frollo, ''more
than four hours, and I certainly hope that tliey may be de-
ducted from my time in purgatory. I heard the King of
Sicily’s eight choristers intone the first verse of high mass
at seven o’clock in the Holy Chapel.”

'Tine choristers they are ! ” returned the other; ''their
voices are sharper than the points of their caps. Before
he endowed a mass in honor of Saint John, the king might
well have inquired whether Saint John liked his Latin
sung with a southern twang.”

" He only did it to give work to these confounded chor-
isters of the King of Sicily ! ” bitterly exclaimed an old
■woman in the crowd beneath the window. " Just fiincy !
a thousand pounds Paris for a mass 1 and charged to the
taxes on all salt-water fish sold in the Paris markets too ! ”

"Silence, old woman!” said a grave and reverend per-
sonage who was holding his nose beside the lishwoman ;
"lie had to endow a mass. Yoii don’t want the king to
fall ill again, do you ? ”

" Bravely spoken, Master Gilles Lecornu, sir furrier of
the king’s robes ! ” cried the little scholar clinging to tlie
capital.

" Lecornu 1 Gilles Lecornu !” said some.

" Gornut'us et hmsutusj' replied another.

" Oh, no doubt ! ” continued the little demon of tlie
capital. " What is there to laugh at ? An honorable man
is Gilles Lecornu, brother of Master Jehau Lecornu, pro-
vost of the king’s palace, son of Master Mahiet Lecomu,
head porter of the Forest of Vincennes, all good citizens oi‘
Paris, every one of them married, from fiither to son I ”

THE GREAI^ HALL.

:2i::

The mirth increased. The fat furrier, not answering a
word, strove to escape the eyes fixed on him from every
side, but ha puffed and perspired in vain ; like a wedge
driven into wood, all his efforts only buried Ms broad
apoplectic face, purple with rage and spite, the more
firmly in the shoulders of his neighbors.

At last one of the latteiv fat, short, and venerable as
himself, came to his rescue.

“ Abominable I shall students talk thus to a citizen I
In my day they would have been well whipped with the
sticks which .served to burn them afterwards.”

The entire band burst out; —

‘'Hollo! who sings that song? Who is this bird of ill
omen ? ”

“ Stay, I know him,” said one ; “ it ’s Master Andry
Musnier”

“ He is one of the four copyists licensed by the Uni-
versity ! ” said another.

“ Everything goes by fours in that shop,” cried a third :
'' four nations, four faculties, four great holidays, four proc-
tors, four electors, four copyists.”

“ Very %vell, then,’’ answered Jehan Frollo ; ‘‘ we must
play the devil with them by fours.”

“ Musnier, we 11 burn your books ”

“ Musnier, well beat your servant”

“ Musnier, we 11 hustle your wife.”

‘‘ That good fat Mademoiselle Oudarde,”

‘‘ Who is as fresh and as feir as if she were a

“ Devil take you 1 ” growled Master Andry Musnier.

NOTRE-^BAMli!.

Miister Aiidry,”
added Jehan, still
iianging ou his capi-
tal; ‘'shut up, or 1 11
fall on your head 1 ”
Master Andry
raised his eyes, seemed
for a moment to be
measuring tlie height of
tlie coluinn, the weight
of the rascal, mentally
multiplied that weight

by the square of the velocity, and was silent.

Jehan, master of the field of battle, went oii triumphantly :
“ I’d do it, though r am the brother of an archdeacon ! ”
“Fine fellows, our University, men are, not even to havt.^
insisted upon our rights on such a day as tin's 1 For, enily

think of it, there is a Maypole and a bonfire in the Town ;
a miracle play, Lord of Misrule, and Flemish embassy in
the City; and at the University — nothing T’

“And yet Maiibert Square is big enough answered
one of the scholars established on the window-seat.

“ Down with the rector, the electors, and tlie proctors 1 ”
shouted Joannes.

“ We must build a bonfire to-night in the Gaillard
Field,” went on the other, “ with Master Andry’s books.'’

“ And the desks of the scribes 1 ” said his neighbor.

“ And the beadles' maces I ”

“ And the deans’ spittoons 1”

“And the proctors’ cupboards!”

“And the electors’ bread-bins !”

“ And the rector’s footstools ! ”

“Down with them!” went on little Jehan, mimicking
a droning psalm-tune ; “ clown with Master Andry, the
beadles, and the scribes ; down with theologians, doctors,
and decretists ; proctors, electors, and rector ! ”

“ Is the world coming to an end ? ” muttered Master
Andry, stopping his ears as he spoke.

“Speaking of the rector, there he goes through the
square ! ” shouted one of those in the window.

Every one turned towards the square.

“ Is it really our respectable rector, Master Thibaut ? ”
asked Jehan Frollo du Moulin, who, clinging to one of the
inner columns, could see nothing of what was going on
outside.

“ Yes, yes,” replied the rest with one accord, “it is
really lie, Master Tliibaut, the rector.”

: 24 :

It was indeed tlie rector and all tlio di^^’nitaries uf llu^
University going in procession to meet tlie eiiilxissy, and
just at this moment crossing the Palace yard. The seliohirs,
crowding in the . window, greeted -them, as they passed, with
sarcasms and mock applause. The rector, who walked at
the head of his company, received the first \'olley, which
. was severe ;

“ Good-nioniing, Sir Rector I Hollo there 1 Good-niorn-
ing, I say!”

'‘How does he happen to bo here, the old gambler?
Has he forsaken his dice ? ”

" How he ambles along on his mule ! The animaTs
ears are not so long as his.”

“ Hollo there ! Good-day to you, j\raster Rector Thibaiit !
Tijbalde aleator ! old fool ! old gambler ! ”

“ God keep you ! did you throw many double sixes
last night ? ”

‘‘Oh, look at his lead-colored old face, wrinkled and
worn with love of cards and dice ! ”

" Whither away so fast, Thibaut, TijbaMe ad dados^ turn-
ing your back on the University and trotting straight
towards town ? ”

" He ’s probably going to look for a lodging in Tybaldy
Street,” shouted Jehan du Moulin.

The entire band repeated the silty joke in a slujut like
thunder, and with frantic clapping of hands.

‘'YoiUre going to loolc for a lodging in Tybaldy Street,
are you not, Sir Rector, you deviTs advocate ? ”

Tlieii came the turn of the other ofticials.

"Down wdth the beadles! down with the mace-beoiHU'sr*

'' you Kobiii P(jussepain, who ’s that fellow yonder ? ’’
“ lliat’s (:Til);)ert de Siiilly, Gilbertus de /SWirw, Ciuuicel-
ior of the College of Autuii/’

''Stay, here’s rny shoe; you’ve got a better place than
I ; fling it in his hice.”

‘‘ Satimmlitias mittiinm ecee nuees.’\

'SDowii with the six theologians in the wliite surplices !”
"Are those theologians ? I thought they were six white
geese given to the city by Saint Genevieve for the fief of
Roogny.”

" ],)own with the doctors 1”

" Down with all cardinal and jocose disputations P’

Take iny cap, Chancellor of St. Genevieve ! You did me
an injustice, — and tliat's the truth; he. gave my place
in the notion of Normandy to little Ascanio Falzaspada,
who belongs to the province of Bourges, being an Italian.”

" Rank injustice,” exclaimed all the students. "Down
with the Cliancellor of St. Genevi^veJ”

"Ho there, Master Joachim de Laclehors! Ho there,
Louis Dahuille 1 Hollo, Lambert Iloctemeiit 1 ”

"May the Devil smother the proctor of the German
nation I ”

"And the chaplains of the Holy Chapel, with their
gray amices, cum tmiicis grisis ! ”

" Hcu dc pilihus grim fonrmtis

" Ho there ! you Masters of Arts 1 See all tlie fine black
copes ! See all the fine red copes I ”

"That maLes a fine tail for the rector!”

"You would think it was a Venetian doge on his way to

wed the sea.” ’ -

20

NOTRE-DAMK.

I say, Jeliuii I look at the Canons otSt. Genevieve T'

'' Deuce take all Canons 1 ”

''Abl.)ot Claude Choart ! Doctor Claude Clioartl Are
you looking for Marie la Gifiarde ? ”

She lives in Glatigny Street/'

She’s hedmaker to tlie king of scamps/’

“■'She's paying lier four farthings, (juatnor denarius/'

“ Aid vmim hoinlmmd

“ Would you like her to pay you in the nose ? "

“ Comrades 1 there goes Master Simon Sanguiu, the
Elector from Picardy, with his wife behind him !

Post ecfuitem sedct atra cicraP
“Cheer up, Master Simon!”

“ Good-day to you, Sir Elector ! ”

“Good-night to you, Madame Electressl"

“ How lucky they are to see so much ! " sighed Joannes de
Molendino, still perched among the foliage of Ids column.

Meanwhile, the licensed copyist to the University,
Master Anclry Musiiier, leaned towards tlie eai‘ of the
furrier of the kings robes, Master Gilles Lecornu.

“ I tell you, sir, this is the end of the world. The
students never were so riotous before; it's tljo cursed in-
ventions of the age that are ruining us all, — artillery,
bombards, serpentines, and particularly printing, that other
German pest. No more manuscripts, no more books!
Printing is death to bookselling. The end of the world
is at hand.”

“So 1 see hy the rage for velvet stuffe,” said the furrier.
At this instant tlie clock struck twelve.

“ Ha ! ” cried the entire throng with but a single voice.

THK GREAT HALL. 27

Tlic students were silent. Then began a great stir; a
great !novi,ng of feet and heads ; a general outbreak of
coughing and handkerchiefs ; everybody shook himself,
arranged himself, raised himself on tiptoe, placed Iiiniself
to the best advantage. Then came deep silence; every
neck was stretched, every mouth was opened wide, every
eye was turned towards the marble table. Notliing was
to be seen, there. The four officers still stood stiff and
motionless as four colored statues. Every eye turned
towards the dais reserved foi\ the Flemish ambassadors.
The door was still shut and the dais empty. The throng-
had been waiting since dawn for three things: noon, the
Flemish embassy, and the mystery. Noon alone arrived
punctually.

Eealiy it was too had.

They waited one, two, three, five minutes, a cpiarter of
an hour ; nothing happened. The dais was still deserted,-
the theatre mute. Eage followed in the footsteps of
impatience. Angry words passed from mouth to mouth,
though still in undertones, to be sure. ‘‘The my.stery 1
the mystery 1 was the low cry. Every head was in a
ferment. A tempest, as yet but tlireatening, hung over
the multitude. Jelian clu Moulin drew forth the first
Hash.

“ The mystery I and to the devil with the Flemish ! ” he
shouted at the top of his voice, writhing and twisting
around his capital like a serpent.

T!ie crowd applauded.

‘‘The mystery!” repeated the mob; “and deuce take
Flanders!”

“ We insist on the mystery at once,” continued the

28

NOTRE-DAME.

student; ‘'or else it\s ray advice to liang ilie J^ilace
bailiff by way (d’ a comedy and morality/’

“Well said,” cried tlie people; ‘'and let us lK.\L;iii the
hanging with his men/’

Loud cheers foih) wed. The four poor devils begaii to
turn ])ale and to exchange glances. The mob surged
towards tliem, and tlie frail wooden railing {airting them
from the multitude l.)ent and swayed beneatli the ])rt‘ssure.

It was a e.ritieai

\ - mornent./^'v

of whom suddmily

arrested the mob, changing rage to curiosity as if by magic.
"Silence! Silence!”

This person, bub little reassured, and tremlding in every
limb, advanced to the edge of the table, with many bows,
which, in proportion as lie, approaclied, grew more and
more like genuflections. However, peace was gradually
restored. Tliem remained only that sligfit murmur alwav.s

T HE GREAT HALL. 29

'SSir citizeus/’ said he, ^ and fair citizeuesses, we shall
have the lionor to declaim and perform before his Eini-
neoee the Cardinal a very fine morality entitled, ''The
Wise Decision of Mistress Virgin MaryT I am to enact
Jupiter, liis Eminence is at this moment escorting the
very honorable embassy of his Highness the Duke of
Austria, which is just now detained to listen to the speech
of the rector of the University at the Donkeys’ Gate. As
soon as the most eminent Cardinal arrives, we will begin.’"

It is plain that it required nothing less than the inter-
vention of Jupiter himself to save the poor nufortuiiate
officers of the bailiff. If we had had the good luck to
invent this very truthful history, and consequently to be
responsible for it to our lady Criticism, the classic rule,
Neo dens intcrsit, could not be brought up against us at
this point. Moreover, Lord Jupiter’s costume was very
handsome, and contributed not a little to calm the mob by
attracting its entire attention. Jupiter was clad in a bri-
gandiiie covered with black velvet, witl) gilt studs ; on
liis head was a fiat cap trimmed with silver-gilt buttons ;
and had it not been for the paint and the big beard which
covered each a half of his face, had it not been for the roll of
gilded cardboard, sprinkled with spangles and all bristling
witli shreds of tinsel, which he carried in his hand, and in
which practised eyes readily recognized the thunder, had
it not been for his flesh-colored feet bound with ribbons in
Greek fashion, he miglit have stood favorable comparison,
for severity of bearing, with any Breton archer in the
Duke of Berry’s regiment.

PIERRE GRINGOIllE.

B ut as he spoke, the satisfaction, the adaiiration
excited by his dress were destroyed* by his words;
and when he reached the fatal conclusion, as soon as the
most eminent Cardinal arrives, we will begin/' Jiis voice
was drowned in a storm of hoots,

“ Begin at once 1 The mystery I the mystery at once
screamed the people. And over all the otlier voices was
heard that of Joliaiines de Molenclino piercing the uproar,
like the life in a char mm at Nisrnes. Begin at onceP'
shrieked the student.

31

PIEREE GRINGOIRE.

‘'Down with Jupiter and Gardiiial Bourbon ! '' shouted
Eobiu I^oussepain and the other learned youths perched in
the windoy^ , ' ; ' ■.

“ The morality this instant ! repeated the mob ; '^in-
stantly I inimediately 1 To tiie sack and tlie rope with the
actors and the Cardinal !

Poor Jupiter, liaggard, terrified, pale beneath his paint,
let Iiis thunderbolt fall, and seized his cap in his hand.
Tlieii he bowed, trembled, and stammered out: '‘His
Eininence — tlie ambassadors ~ Madame .Margaret of
Flanders — ” He knew not wliat to say. In his secret
heart he was mightily afraid of being hanged.

Hanged by the populace for waiting, hanged by the
Cardinal for not waiting, — on either hand lie saw a gulf ;
that is to say, a gallows.

Luckily, some one appeared to extricate him from his
embarrassing position and assume the responsibility.

An individual, standing just within the railing, in the
vacant space about the marble table, and whom nobody
had as yet observed, — so completely was his long slim
person hidden from sight by the thickness of the pillar
against which he leaned, — this individual, we say, tall, thin,
pale, fair-haired, still young, although already wrinkled in
brow and cheeks, with bright eyes and a smiling mouth,
clad in black serge, worn and shining witli age, approached
the table and made a sign to the poor victim. But the
latter, in his terror and confusion, foiled to see him.

The new-comer took another step forward.

" Jupiter ! '' said he, " my dear Jupiter ! ”

The other did not hear him.

32 . ■' 'NOTRE-IMME.

At last the tall fair-liaired fellow, growiii?^ iniinitient,
shouted almost in his ear, —

'' Micliel G i borne 1 ”

Who calls me ? ” said Jupiter, as if sudtleiily wakened,

“ I,” replied the person dressed in black.

Ah ! ” said Jupiter.

'•'Begin dilectl}y’^ continued the other. ‘‘Satisfy tim
public; I take it ujjQii myself to pacify the bailiff, who
will pacify the Cardinal.’^

Jupiter breathed again.

" Gentlemen and citizens/’ he shouted at the top of his
lungs to the crowtl wlio continued to hoot him, “ we will
begin at once.”

“ Evoe, Jtipitcr / PlaudUe, ewes ! ” cried the students.

“ Noel ! Noe! !” cried the people.

Deafening applause followed, and the hall still trembled
with the plaudits when Jupiter had retired behind the
hangings.

But tlie unknown person \vho had so miraculously
changed ‘'the tempest to a calm/’ as our dear old <Jor-
neille says, had modestly withdrawn into the shadow of
his pillar, and would doubtless have remained there in-
visible, motionless, and mute as before, liad he not been
drawn forward by two young women, wlio, placed in tiie
foremost rank of the spectators, had observed his colloquy
with Michel Giboriie-Jupiter.

“ Master/’ said one of them, beckoning birn to come
■nearer.""

“ Be quiet, my dear Lidnarde/’ said her neighbor, pretty,
fresh, and emboldened by all her Sunday finery “ That is

110 scliolar, he is a layman ; you must not call him Master,
but Slrr

'' Sir/’ said Lidnarde.

The stranger approached the railing.

'' What do you wish of me, young ladies ? ” he asked

3

M ' NOTRE-DAMK. ,

“Oil, nothing r’ said Lidnarde, much coiifused ; “it ..
my neighbor Gisquette la Gencieuiie who wants to speak
to'

“IsTotat all;’ replied Gisquette, blushing; “it was Lie-
narde who called you Master; I told her that slie should,
say Sir.”

The two young girls cast down their eyes. The slrangtn;
who desired nothing better than to enter into conversation
with theui, looked at them with a smile.

“Then you have notljing to say to me, young ladies ? ”

“ Oh, nothing at all I ’’ answered Gisquette.

Tlte tall hrir-liaired youth drew back a |>aee ; but
the two curious creatures had no idea of losittg their
prize.

"'Sir/’ said Gisquette hastily, and with tlie impetu-
osity of Wvater rushing through a floodgate or a wo-
man coming to a sudden resolve, “so you know that
soldier who is to play the part of M.adame '\Tigin in
the mystery ? ”

“You mean the part of Jupiter?” replied the un-
known.

“ Oh, yes,” said Lidnarde, “ is iTt she silly ? So you
know Jupiter ?”

“ Micliel Giborne? ” replied the unknown. “ Yes,
madaine.”

“ He Las a fine beard ! ” said Lidnavde.

“Will it be very interesting — what they are going to
recite up there ? ” asked Gisquette, sliyly.

“Very interesting indeed/’ replied the stranger, witliout
the least hesitation.

PIEKRE GRINGOIIiE. 35

to be ^!5aid Lidoarde.

'•'The Wise Decisioii of Madame Virgin Mary/ a
morality, if you please, madame.”

" All 1 that ’s another thing,” replied Lidnarde.

A short pause followed. The stranger first broke the
silence : —

"It is quite a new morality/ whiGh has never yet been
played.” .

" Then it is not the same,” said Gisqiiette, " that was
given two years ago, on the day of the legate’s arrival,
and in which three beautiful girls took the part of — ”

" Sirens,” said Lienarde.

"And all naked,” added the young man. Lidnarde
modestly cast down her eyes; Gisquette looked at her,
and did the same. He continued with a smile, —

" That was a very pretty sight. This, now, is a morality,
written expressly for the young Flemish madame.”

" Will they sing pastorals ? ” asked Gisquette.

"Fie!” said the stranger, "in a morality! You must
not mix up different styles. If it were a farce, that ivould
be another thing.”

" What a pity 1 ” replied Gisquette. " That day there
were wild men and women at the Ponceau Fountain, who
fought together and made ail sorts of faces, singing little
motets and pastorals all the while.”

"What suits a legate,” said tlie stranger, somewhat
dryly, " will hardly suit a princess,”

" And close by them,” added Lidnarde, " were several
bass instruments which played grand melodies.”

"And to refresh the passers-by,” continued Gisquette,'

36 '

NOTEE-BAME.

fountain streamed wine, milk, and liip|>uer:is, iVuni
tliree moutlis, for all to drink who would/'

And a little way beyond that foimtain;' went un Lie-
nardo, at the Trinity, there was a passion-play, peribianed
by mute characters."

‘^How well I remember it!" exclaimed Gisqiiette, —
''God on the cross, and the two tliieves to right aiid
left"

Here the young gossips, growing excited at the recol ,
lection of the arrival of the legate, both began to talk
at once.

" And farther on, at the Painters’ Gate, there wtno other
persons richly dressed.”

"And at the Fountain of the Holy Innocents, tliat
hunter chasing a doe, with a great noise of dogs and
hunting-horns 1 ”

" And at the Paris shambles, those scaffolds representing
the fortress at Dieppe!”

"And when the legate passed by, you* know, Gisquette,
there was an attack, and all the Eijglish had tlieir throats
cut."

"And over against the Chatelet Gate there weio very
fine persons ! "

" And on the Money-brokers’ Bridge, wliich was hung
all over with tapestries!”

" And when the legate passed by, tliey let loose more
than two hundred dozen of all sorts of birds ; it was very
fine, Lidnarde."

" It will be finer to-day ” replied their listener at last,
seeming to hear them with some hnpatience.

PIERRE GEINGOIRE. o7

‘'Then you promise iis that this play will be a fine
one ? said Gisqiiette.

" To be sure/ he answered. Then he added with
a certain emphasis : Young ladies, I arn the author

of V'l'

'' Eealiy ? ” said the young girls, much amazed.

" Eealiy 1 replied the poet, drawing himself up ; " that
is, there are two of us: Jehan Marchand, who sawed the
planks and built the frame and did all the carpenter’s
work, and I, who wrote the piece. My name is Pierre
Gringoire.”

The author of the '"Cid” could not have said ^'Pierre
Corneille ” with any greater degree of pride.

Our readers may have noticed that some time had
already passed since Jupiter had gone behind the hang-
ings, and before the author of the new morality revealed
himself so abruptly to the simple admiration of Gis-
quette and Lidnarde. Strange to say, all that multitude,
which a few instants previous was so furiously uproari-
ous, now waited calmly for the fulfilment of the actor’s
promise, wdiich proves that enduring truth, still verified
in our own theatres, that the best way to make your
audience wait patiently is to assure them that you will
begin directly.

However, student Joannes was not asleep.

“ Hollo, ho 1 ” he cried out suddenly, in the midst of the
cairn expectation w^hich followed on confusion. “ Jupiter,
Madame Virgin, devilish mountebanks ! are you mocking
us ? The play ! the play ! Begin, or we will stir you up
again 1 ”

38

KOTKE-DAME.

This was quite enough.

The sound of musical iiistruraents pitched in various
keys was heard I'roni the interior of the scaiMdiiiga 'Fhe
tapestiy waxs raised ; four characters painted and ciad in
motley garb came out, climbed the rude stage, ladder, and,
gaining the uj>per platform, ranged tliemselves in line be-
fore tile public, bowing low ; then the symphoiiv ceased.
The mystery was about to begin.

Tliese four personages, having been abundantly repaid
for their bows by applause, began, amid devout silence, a
prologue which we gladly spare the reader. Moreover, as
happens even nowadays, the audience were for more inter-
ested in the costumes of the actors than in the speeches
whicli they recited ; and, to tell the trutli, tliey were quite
right. They were all four dressed in gowns partly yellow
and partly white, which only differed from each otlier in
material; the first was of gold and silver brocade, the
second of silk, the third of wool, the fourth of linen. Tlie
first of these characters had a sword in ins right hand, the
second two golden keys, the third a pair of scales, the
fourth a spade ; and to aid those indolent understandings
which might not have penetrated the evident meaning of
these attributes, might be read embroidered in big black
letters — on the hem of the brocade gown, ‘'1 am Nobil-
ity;'’ on the hem of the silk gown, "'I am liKLioiON;''
on the hem of the woollen gown, am TitADE;" and
on the hem of the linen gown, “I am Labor” The sex
of the two male allegories was clearly shown to every
sensible beholder by their shorter gowns and by their
peculiar head-dress, — a flat cap called a crmnigndv ; while

PIEERE GRINGOIKE. 39

tlie two femiiiine allegories, clad in loiiger garments, wore
hoods.

One must also iiave been wilfully dull not to gather from
the poetical prologue that Labor was wedded to Trade,
and Eeligion to Nobility, and that the two happy pairs
owned in common a superb golden dolphin, which they
desired to bestow only on the fairest of the fair. Thej^-
\vere therefore jouriieying tlirough the wmrld in searcli of
this beauty ; and having in turn rejected the Queen of Gol-
conda, the Princess of Trebizond, the daughter of the
Oharn of Tartary, etc., Labor and Eeligion, Nobility and
Trade, \vere now resting on the marble table in the Palace
of Justice, spouting to their simple audience as many long
sentences and maxims as would suffice the Faculty of Arts
for all the examinations, sophisms, determinances, figures,
and acts req^uired of all the bachelors in taking their
degrees.

All this "was indeed very fine.

Put ill the crowd upon whom the four allegorical per-
sonages poured such floods of metaphor, each trying to
outdo the other, there was no more attentive ear, no more
anxious heart, no more eager eye, no neck more out-
stretched, than the eye, the ear, the neck, and the heart
of the author, the poet,* the worthy Pierre Gringoire, who
could not resist, a moment previous, the delight of telling
his name to two pretty girls. He had withdrawn some
paces IVorii them, behind his pillar; and there he lis-
tened, looked, and enjoyed. The kindly plaudits which
greeted the opening lines of his prologue still rang in
his innermost soul, and he was completely absorbed in

40

ISfOTBE-DAMK.

that kind of ecstatic contemplation with whicli an an-
tlior watches Jiis ideas falling one l^y one {Voia tije acior\s
lips amid tlie silence of a vast assembly. Gout! PiuiTe
Gringoire !

We regret to say that this first ecstasy was very soon
disturbed. Gringoire had scarcely placed his li})S to this
intoxicating draiiglit of joy and triuinpl), when a drop of
bitterness was blended with it.

A ragged beggar, who could reap no harvest, lost as he
was in the midst of the crowd, and who don]>tkjss failed In
find suflicient to atone for his loss in tlie pockets of his
neighbors, hit upon the plan of perching himself upon
some conspicuous point, in order to attract eyes and
alms. He tlierefore hoisted liirnself, during the first lines
of the programme, by the aid of the columns of the dais,
up to the top of the high railing running around it ; , and
there he sat, soliciting the attention and the pity of the
multitude, by the sight of his rags, and a hideous sore
which covered his right arm. Moreover, he uttered not
a word.

His silence permitted the prologue to go on witlumt in-
terruption, and no apparent disorder would have occurred,
if ill luck had not led the student Joannes to note tlie
beggar and his grimaces, from his own lofty ])ost. A fit of
rnad laughter seized upon the young rogue, wlio, regardless
of the fact that he was interrupting tlie performance and
disturbing the general concentration of thouglit, cried
merrily, —

“ Just look at that impostor asking alms I

Any one wlio has thrown a , stone into a frog-pond or

41

PIEKUK GRINGUIHE.

fired a gun into a ilock of birds, ca form some idea of tlie
efiect wliicli these incongruous words produced in the
midst of the universal attention, Gringoire shuddered as
at an electric shock. The prologue was cut short, and
every head was turned, in confusion, towards the beggar,
who, far from being put out of countenance, regarded tliis
incident as a good occasion for a harvest, and began to
whine, witli an air of great distress, his eyes half closed,
Charity, kind people I ”

‘‘ Wliy, upon my soul/’ contimied Joannes, 'Gt is Clopin
Trouillefoii ! Hollo there, my friend ! Did you find the
wound on your leg inconvenient, that you have transferred
it to your arm ?'’

So saying, with monkey-like skill he flung a small sil-
ver coin into the greasy felt hat which the beggar held with
his invalid arm. The beggar accepted the alms and the
sarcasm without wincing, and went on in piteous tones,
'' Charity, kind people I ”

This episode greatly distracted the attention of the
audience; and many of the spectators, liobin Pousseimin
and all the students at their head, joyfully applauded the
odd duet, improvised, in the middle of the prologue, by the
student with his shrill voice and the beggar with his im-
perturbable whine.

Gringoire was much displeased. Eecovering from his
first surprise, he began shouting to the characters on
tlie stage: ‘‘Go on! What the deuce 1 Cto on T' not
even condescending to cast a look of scorn at the two
internijders.

42

HOTBE-DAME.

At this inoiiieiit he felt himself pulled by the lieui of
his surtoiit; he turned, in rathei’ an iil-hiinior, aiul had
liard work to force a smile, as he needs must do. It was
the fair arm of ■ Gisquette la Gencieniie, whicli, passed
through ' the rails, thus entreated .his, attention.,,

."‘Sir/' said the young girl, ""will they go on,?"', '

Gf course/’ replied Gringoire, quite shucked at the
question.

‘‘ In that case, sir/’ she went on, “ would you have the
kindness to explain to me — ”

“ What thev are going to say?” interrupted Gringoire.
“Well! listen.”

“No/’ said Gisqiiette, “but what they have already
said.”

Gringoire started violently, like a man touched on a
sensitive spot. ; ?

""Plague take the foolish, stupid little wench !” he mut*
tered between his teeth.

From that moment Gisquette was lost in Ids esti-
mation.

However, the actors had obeyed his command, and the
public, seeing that they had begun to speak again, again
began to listen, not without necessarily losing many beau-
ties from this kind of rough joining of the two parts of the
piece, so abruptly dissevered. Gringoire brooded Ijitterly
over this fact in silence. Still, quiet was gradually re-
stored, the student was silent, the beggar countiid a few
coins in his hat, and the play went on.

It was really a very fine work, and one which it seems

PIERRE GRINGOIRE.

43

to us might well be made use of to-day, with a few changes.
The plot, somewhat long and somewhat flat, — that is,
•written according to rule, — was simple; and Gringoire, in
the innocent sanctuary of his innermost soul, admired its
clearness. As may be imagined, the four allegorical char-
acters were rather fatigued after travex'sing three quarters
of the globe without managing to dispose of their golden
dolphin creditably. Thereupon ensued fresh eulogies of
the marvellous fish, with a thousand delicate allusions to
the young lover ^ of Margaret of Flanders, then very sadly
secluded at Amboise, and little suspecting that Labor and
Eeligion, Mobility and Trade, had just travelled round the
world for his sake. The aforesaid dauphin was young, was
handsome, was strong, and especially (magnificent source
of all royal virtues ! ) he was the son of the Lion of France.
I declare that this bold metaphor is admirable ; and that
the natural history of the theatre, on a day of allegories and
royal epitlialamia, is not to be alarmed at the thought of a
dolphin being the son of a lion. It is just these rare and
Pindaric mixtures which prove the degree of enthusiasm.
Kevertbeless, to play the critic, we must confess that the
poet might have managed to develop this beautiful idea in
less than two hundred lines. True, the mystery -was to
last from noon until four o’clock, by the order of the pro-
vost ; something must be done to fill up the time. Besides,
the people listened patiently.

All at once, in the very middle of a quarrel between

^ There is a play on the words “dauphin” and “ dolphin,” which are
identical in French.

notbi5-i)am:e.

MHilenioiyelie : Trade 'and Madame. Nebility, j'u,st .as Master
Labo]‘ I iroDounced this M'oiiderful line, —

Ke’er saw the woods a beast inon.': beautii’ul.

the door leading to the platforra, whicli liad liitlierto re-
mained so inopportunely closed, was still more inoppor-
tiuicly opened ; and tlie ringing voice of the usher abru|d.ly
announced: “His Eminence, Cardinal Bourbon

111 .

THE CARDINAL.

P OOR GRINGOIRE! The noise of all the big cannon
crackers fired on St. John’s day, the discharge of
twenty crooked arquebuses, the report of that famous ser-
]ientine of tlie Tower of Billy, which, during the siege of
Paris, on ^Sunday, Sept. 29, 1465, killed seven Burgundians
at one shot, tlie'^ex plosion of all the gunpowder stored at
the Tern|>le Gate, would liave rent his ears less rudely, at
that solemn and dramatic, moment, than did tliose few

4 &

words dropping from the mouth of an usher : His Eiui-
iieuce. Cardinal Bourbon T’

Not that Pierre Griiigoire feared the Cavdiiial or scorned
him ; he was neither so weak nor so conceited. A genu-
ine eclectic, as he would be called nowadays, Gringoire
was one of those firm and lofty, calm and temperate souls,
who always contrive to choose a happy niediuin
in dimidio rcrim), and wdio are full of sense and liberal
philosophy, although they have a high regard for rurdinals.
Precious and perpetual race of philosopliers, to whom, as
to another Ariadne, wisdom seems to have giveii a guid-
ing clew which they have gone on unwinding from the
beginning of the world, as they journeyed through tlie
labyrinth of human things I They are to be foxind in
every age, ever the same ; that is, always in harmony with
the age. And, to say nothing of our Pierre Gringcnrtg who
would represent them in the fifteenth century if we could
succeed in portraying him as he deserves, it is assuredly
their spirit which animated Father du Breuil in tlie six-
teenth, when he wrote these simple and sublime words,
worthy of all the ages : “ I am a Parisian in nationality and .
a Parrhisian in speech ; Parrhisia beirig a Greek word sig-
nifying 'freedom of speech;’ the which I have used even
towards the cardinals, uncle and brother to the Prince of
Conty : always with due respect for their greatizess, and
without offending any man among their followers, wltich
is much.”

The disagreeable effect which the Cardinal produced on
Pierre Gringoire, therefore, partook neither of hatred nor of
scorn. Quite the contrary ; our poet had too much good

47

THE CARDINAL. *“

sense and toe tlireadbare a coat not to attach especial value
to tlie fact that many an allusion in his prologue, and par-
ticularly those in glorification of the dauphin, son of the
.Lion of France, might be heard by a most eminent ear.
But interest is not all-powerful in the noble nature of
poets. Let us suppose the entity of tlie poet t.o be repre-
sented by the number ten ; it is certain that a chemist,
who should analyze and pharmacopceize it, as Eabelais
says, would find it to be composed of one part self-interest
to nine parts of sell-esteem. ISTow, at the moment that the
door was thrown open to admit the Cardinal, Gringoire's
nine parts of self-esteem, swollen and inflated by the
breath of public admiration, were in a state of abnormal
development, before which the imperceptible molecule of
self-interest, which we just now discovered in the constitu-
tion of poets, vanished and faded into insignificance, pre-
cious ingredient though it was, the ballast of reality and hu-
manity, wdthout which tliey would never descend to earth.
Gringoire enjoyed feeling, seeing, handling, as it were, an
entire assembly — of rascals, it is true, but what did tliat
matter ? They 'were stupefied, petrified, and almost stifled
by the incommensurable tirades with which evo3ry portion
of liis epithalamium bristled. I affirm that he himself
partook of the general beatitude, and tliat, unlike La Fon-
taine, who, on witnessing a performance of his own com-
edy, '' Tlie Florentine,” inquired, '' What clown wrote that
liiapsody ? ” (3ringoire would fain have asked his neigh-
bor, '‘Whose is this masterpiece?” You may judge of
the effect produced on him by the abrupt and untimely
arrival of the Cardinal,

48

KOTEE-BAME.

His fears were but too soon realised. The entjuiicf* of
his Eminence distracted tlie audience. Every head wa;-;
turned towards the platform. No one listened. The
Cardinal! the Cardinal! repeated every tongue. The un-
fortunate prologue was a second time cut short.

The Cardinal paused for a moment on the threshold.
While he cast an indifferent glance over the assembly, the
uproar increased. Every one wished to get a better vit^w
of liim. Every one tried to see who could best stretch his
neck over his neighbor's shoulders.

He was indeed a great personage, and one the sight of
whom was well worth any other spectacle. Charles, Car-
dinal Bourbon, Archbishop and Count of Lyons, Primate
of the Gauls, was at the same time allied to Louis XL
through his brother, Pierre, Loi'd of Beaiijeu, wlio had mar-
ried the eldest daughter of the king, and allied to Charles
the Bold through his mother, Agnes of Burgundy. Now,
the dominant feature, the cliaracteristic and distinctive
trait in the character of tlie Primate ol* the (Lulls, was his
courtier-like spirit and his devotion to thcKse in power. It
is easy to imagine the countless difficultiiis in which his
double kinship had involved him, and all the tempoi’al
reefs between which his spiritual bark had been forced
to manauivre lest it should founder uj)on idther Louis
or Charles, that Charybdis and that Rcylla which had
swallowed up the Duke of Nemours and the Constable of
Saint-Pol. Heaven be thanked, he had escaped toloraldy
well from the voyage, and had reached Pome without acci-
dent. But although he was safe in, port, and indeial be-
cause he was safe in port,,, "he never recalled without a

; , ; ; : : . 49

tremor the various haps and mishaps of
so lone: full of alarms and labors. He was therefore wont
to say that the year 1476 had been to him both black and
white; meaning that in one and the same year he liad
lost his mother, the Duchess of Bourbonoais, and his
cousin, the Duke of Burgundy, and that one loss had
consoled him for the other.

However, he was a very good fellow; he led a joyous
life as cardinal, cheered himself willingly with the royal
wine of Chaillot, was .not averse to Ilicliarde la Garmoise
and Thomasse la Saillarde, preferred to bestow alms upon
pretty maids rather tlian aged matrons, and for all these
reasons was very agreeable to the populace of Paris. He
always went surrounded by a small court of bisliops and
priests of lofty lineage, gallant, jovial, and fond of feasting
on occasion ; and more than once the good devotees of St.
Germain (rAiixerre, as they passed by night beneath the
brightly-lighted windows of Bourbon’s lioiise, had been
scandalized on hearing the same voices which had sung
vespers for tliem that day, now chanting to the clink of
glasses the Bacchic adage of Benedict 11 L, — that pope who
added a third crown to the tiara, — ‘'Bibamtis jKqKtHier,''

It was undoubtedly this popularity, so justly ac<piired,
which saved him, on his entrance, from any unpleasant re-
ception o!} the part of the mob, so malcontent ])ut a mo-
ment before, and but little inclined to respect a cardinal
on tlie very day when they were to elect a Hut

Parisians are not given to hoarding up grudges; and tlieii,
by insisting that the play should begiri, the good citizens

^ ll}i‘ Lon! of Misrule was known ns the FoolV Pope.

NOTRE-DAMB.

50

iiad shown, iheir authority, thus getting the better uf flit'
Cardinal; and this triumph sufficed them. Besides, (tirdi-
nal Bourbon was a remarkably handsome man ; he hat! a
very gorgeous red robe which was most l,)ecuniiiig ; which
is as luueli as to say that all tire women, anti conseijucntly
the better half of the audience, were on liis side. Cer-
tcdnly, it would have l)een unjust, and in very Inn! tasto,
to I'ioot a cardinal for being late at the play, wlien he is
handsome and wears Iris red robe graceiully.

He entere<l, therefore, bowed to the asseuddy witlr the
hereditary smile of the grandee to the |)(*ople, and walked
slowly towards Iris scarlet velvet arm-chair with an air of
being absoihod in thoughts oi‘ far other things. His es-
cort, or what wo should ' now call his stalf of bishoj>s and
priests, Hocked alter him upon the dais, not withoiit ve-
newed curiosity and confusion on the part of the ground-
lings. Every man tried to point them out and name
them ; every man knew at least one among them : this
one, the Bi>sliop of Marseilles, Alandet, if T remember
rightly; that one, tlie Dean of 8t. Denis; another, Ro-
bert de Lespiuasse, Abbot of St. Germain dcs Prds, the
libertine brother of one of the mistresses of“ Louis XL, —
all with endless mistakes and mispronunciations. As for
the students, tliey swore roundly. It was their day, their
Feast of Fools, their saturnalia, the annual orgies of the
basoclie ^ and the schools. No iniquity but was allowable
and sacred upon that day. And tlien there were plmity
of giddy girls in the* crowd, — Simone Quatrelivres, Agnbs
la Gadine, liobine Fiddebou. Was it not the least tlmt

^ Tlu; cori!]»rajy of lawyers’ clerks of tlie Uurlianitfitt of Pai'is.

THE CARDINAL.

5f

they could do to swear at their ease and blaspheme a little
on so flue a day, in so goodly a company of churchmen and
courtesans ? Neither were they slow to seize the oppor-
tunity; and in the midst of the uproar came a terrific out-
burst of oaths and obscenities from their lawless lips, — the
lips of a set of students and scholars restrained all the rest
of the year by their dread of the hot iron of Saint Louis.
Poor Saint Louis I how they set him at defiance in his own
Palace of Justice! Each of them selected from the new-
comers on the dai’s a black or gray, a white or purple
gown for liis own especial victim. As for Joannes Frollo
de Moleiidino, in his quality of brother to an archdeacon
he boldly attacked the red cassock, and bawled at the
top of his voice, fixing his impudent eyes full on the Car-
dinal, “ repleta mero!'"

All these details, boldly set down here for the edification
of the reader, were so covered by the general noise and
confusion, that they were lost before they reached the
dais ; besides which, tlie Cardinal would have paid but lit-
tle heed to them, had he heard, them, the license of that
particular day was so well established a fact in the history
of public morals. He had, moreover, — and his counte-
nance showed how fully it absorbed him, — quite another
care following him closely, and stepping upon the plat-
form almost at the same moment as himself; namely, the
Flemisli embassy.

Not tliat he was much of a politician, or that he
troiiblcil himself much about the possible results of the
Biarriago of liis cousin, Lady Margaret of Burgundy, with
his cousin Charles, Dauphin of Vienna; he cared very

NOTKE~DAME.

little about tlio duration of the frieudsbip patuhed u]) be-
tween the Duke of Austria and tlie King- of Fra,iue3, or
about the King of England’s opinion of the slight ]aU xipnii
his daughter; and he tested tlie royal vintage of Ohaiihd
every evening, without suspecting that a few tlasks oi' that
same wine (slightly doctored and improved by !><jct«)r
Coictier, to be sure), cordially presented to Edward IV.
by Louis XI., would one fine day rid Louis XI. of
Edward IV. The very honorable embassy of the Duke
of Austria brought none of these cares to the CardinaFs
mind, but it troubled him in another way. It was indeed
rather hard, and we have already spoken a word in regard
to it in an earlier page of this book, to be forced to wel-
come and entertain — lie, Charles of Eourbon — these
nondescript citizens ; he, a cardinal, to condescend to
aldermen ; he, a Frenchman and a boon companion, to be-
friend Flemish beer-drinkers, and that in public too ! This
was assuredly one of the most painful forces he l»ad ever
been compelled to play for the king’s pleasure.

Still, lie turned to the door with the best grace in the
world (so well had he trained himself) when the usher
annoimced in ringing tones, ''The envoys from the Duke
of Austria i” Needless to say that the entire audicmce did
the same.

Then entered, two by two, with a gravity in vivid
contrast to the lively ecclesiastical escjoil of Gha,}*les of
Bourbon, the forty-eight ambassadors of Maximilian of
Austria, liea<led by the reverend father in Cod, Johan,
Abbot of Saint-Iku'tin, Chancellor of tlie Golden Floeci^,
aiul JiKupies de (}oy, Lord of Dauby, high bailiff uf ClHuit.

THE CAEDIJNAL.

SB

A proibiind silence fell upon the as>seiiibly, followed by
stilled laughter at all the absurd names and all the com-
monplace titles which each of these personages calmly
transmitted to the usher, who instantly liiuied names and
titles pell-mell, and horribly mangled, at tlie heads of the
crowd. There were Master Loys Eoeiof, alderman of the
city of Louvain; Master Clays d’Etuelde, alderman of Brus-
sels; Master Paul de Baeust/Lord of Voirmizelle, president
of Flanders; Master Jehan Coleghens, burgomaster of the

city of Antwer]> ; Master George de la Moere, head sheriff
of the hacre of the town of Ghent ; Master Gheldolf van
der Hage, head sheriff of the court of equity of the same
town; and the lord of Bierbecque, and Jelian Pinnock, and
Jehan Dymaerzelle, etc., etc., etc, : bailiffs, aldermen, burgo-
masters ; burgomasters, aldermen, bailiffs; all stiff, starched,
and strait-laced, dressed in their Sunday best of velvet
and damask, wearing flat black velvet caps on their heads, ^

54

KOTRE-i>AME/ ,

with large tassels of gold tliread fruui C\'priis; honest
■Flemish figures after all, severe and digiiilied faces, of
the race of those whom liembrandt portrayed so girAX'ly
and forcibly against the dark background of Ids *■ Kight
Watch/' — personages every one. of whom liorc it wntfen
upon liis brow that Maximilian of Austria was right in
'‘confiding fully,’’ as his ]n‘oclamaLiou had it, '‘in iheirgnod
sense, valoi*, experience, loyalty, and good rpudities/’

liut there was one exception. This was a nmii witli a
cunning, intelligent, crafty lace, the hiee of a inonlory coin-
biiied with that of a diplomatist, to jineet whom the Car-
dinal stepped forward tlireo paces, bowing low, a,nd yet
wlio bore a name no more high sounding than “ Guillaiinie
Eym, councillor and pensionary of the town of GhenV
Few persons there knew what Guillaume liyin was, —
a rare genius, \vho in time of revolution would have ap-
peared with renown in the foi^emost rank, but wlio in the
fifteenth century was reduced to the lowest intrigues, and
to “living by sapping and mining/' as the Duke of St.
Simon expresses it. However, he was appreciated by the
greatest “ sapper” in Europe ; he planned and plotted with
Louis XL on familiar terms, and often laid his liand on
the king’s secret necessities. All these things were utterly
unknown to this throng, who marvelled at the politeness
shown by the Cardinal to tliis scurvy Flemish bailiif.

MASTER JACQUES COPPENOLE

A S the Pensionary of Ghent and his Eminence were ex-
changin.if very low bows, and a few words in still
lower voices, a tall, broad-faced, square-shouldered man
entei'cd boldly after Guillaume Eym ; he reminded one of
a dog in pursuit of a fox. His felt hat and leather jerkin
looked very shabby in the midst of the velvet and silk

56 .' ' TOTHE--T)AME,

whicli slUTouuded him. '.'Supposing liiiii to be some groom
who had lost liis way, the iisher stopped hiiii.

''Hollo, my friend! there 's no passing lieref'

The man in the leather coat shouldered 1dm aside.

"What does the fellow mean ?’* he said in a tone whieli
made the entire hall aware of this strange colloquy,
" Don't you see that I belong to the party ? ”

" Your name ? ” asked tlie usher.

" JaequG>s Coppenole.’'

" Your titles ? ”

" Hosier at tlie sign of the Tliree Little Chains, at
Ghent".

The uslier started back. It was bad enough to have to
announce aldermen and burgomasters ; but a hosier, that
was hard indeed! The Cardinal was on thorns. Every
one was looking and listening. For two days past his
Eminence had been laboring to lick these Flemish bears
into some presentable shape, and this outburst was hard
upon him. However, Guillaume Eym, with his crafty
smile, leaned towards the usher.

"Announce Master Jacques Coppenole, clerk to the
aldermen of the town of Ghent," he whispered softly.

" Usher," added the Cardinal in a loud voice, "announce
Master Jacques Coppenole, clerk to the aldermen of the
illustrious town of Ghent.”

Tills was a mistake. Guillaume Bym, if left to liiin-
self, would have evaded the difficulty; but Coppenole
had overheard the Cardinal.

" Ho, by God’s cross ! ” he cried in his voice of tlmnder,
"Jacques Coppenole, hosier. Do you hear me, usher?

MxiSTBR JACQUES COPFENOLK.

W:

Xoiliing more, notliiiig less. By God’s cross! a hosier is
good enough for me. The archduke liimseli' has more than
once sougiit his gauntlet in my hosef’^

Tliere was a burst of laughter and applause. A pim is
always instantly appreciated in Paris, and consequently
always applauded.

Let us add that Coppenole was a man of the people,
and that the audience about him consisted of the peo-
ple only ; tlius tlie sympathy between tliem was prompt,
electric, and they were at once on an equal footing. The
proud exclamation of the Flemish hosier, while it mortified
the courtiers, stirred in every humble soul a certain sense
of dignity still vague and indistinct in the fifteenth cen-
tury. This hosier, who had just bearded the Cardinal
himself, was their equal I A very pleasant thought for
poor devils who were wont to respect and obey the ser-
vants of the officers of the bailiff of the Abbot of St.
Genevieve, train-bearer to the Cardinal.

Coppenole bowed haughtily to his Eminence, who re-
turned the salutation of the all-powerful citizen dreaded by
Louis XI. Then, while Guillaume Eym, ''' a wise and wily
man,” as Philippe de Cmniiies has it, watched them both
with a smile full of raillery and superiority, they took
eacli his place, — the Cardinal troubled and disconcerted,
Coppenole calm and erect, doubtless tliinking that after
all Ids title of hosier was quite as good as any other, and
that Mary of Burgundy, mother of that Margaret whose
marriage lie was now negotiating, would have feared him

^ Til eve is iu tiic original a play on the similarity of the words *'gant ”
{a glove) and Ghent, which is untranslatable.

58

NOTRE-DAMB.

Jess as carcliiial than as hosier; for no cardinal would liave
led on the men of Ghent against the favorites of the (iaugii-
ter of Charles the Bold ; no cardinal could have liardencil
the liearts of the masses against her tears and her piriyers,
by a single word, wlien the heiress of Flanders besought lier
people to grant their pardon, at tlie very foot of tlieir seal-
fold ; while the hosier had but to lift his leathern elbow to
cause botli your heads to fall, 0 ye illustrious lords, (day
d’Hymbercourt and Chancellor Guillaume Hugonet !

But all was not over yet for the poor Caj’dinal, who
must needs drink to the dregs the bitter cup of associa-
tion with such low company.

The reader may perhaps recall the impudent beggar
who clung to the hinges of the Gardiuars dais at the
opening of the prologue. The arrival of the distinguished
guests did not cause him to relax" his hold; and while
prelates and ambassadors were packed as close as Uiitcli
herrings in the seats upon the platform, he made himself
quite comfortable, and coolly crossed Jiis legs upon the
architrave. Such insolence was unusual, and no one
noted it at the moment, attention being fixed elsewhere.
He for his part saw nothing in the liall ; lie swayed his
liead to and fro with the careless ease of a Nea]‘)olitan, re-
peating ever and anon amid the din, as if mechanically,
“Charity, kind people!” and certainly he was the only
one in the entire audience who did not deign to turn his »
head to listen to the altercation between Coppenolc and
the usher. Now, as chance would have it, the master
hosier of Ghent, with whom the people already sympa-
thized strongly, and upon whom all eyes were fixed,

le rascal
tattered
i, delight
dng the
hrong of
and the
Iking in

low tones, clasping eacih other’s hands ; while the rags of
Oh>pin Tronillefou, displayed against the cloth of gold
of the dais, produced the effect of a caterpillar upon an
orange.

The novelty of tliis strange scene excited such an out-

60 NOTRE-^DAME.

burst of mirth in the hall, that the Cardinal quicMj
ceivecl it; he bent forward, and, unable from In’s pusi lit )ii
to catch more than a glimpse of Trouillefoifs disgracuiiil
garments, he quite naturally supposed that the beggar was
asking alms, and, indignant at his audacity, he exclaiiiUid,
Sir Bailiff’ of the Palace, throw me that rascal into the
river P’;";'

“By God's cross! Sir Cardinal/' said Coppcnole, with
out releasing Clopin's hand, “ he is my friend."

“Noel! Noel!" cried the mob. From that instant
Master Coppenole was “ in high favor with the people/' in
Paris as in Ghent ; “ for men of his cut always are," says
Philixipe de Comines, “when they are thus disorderly."

The Cardinal bit his lip. He bent towards his neighbor,
the Abbot of St. Genevibve, and said in an undertone :

“Pleasant ambassadors are these sent us by the arch-
duke to announce the coming of Lady Margaret I "

“Your Eminence/' replied the abbot, “ wastes his cour-
tesies upon these Flemish grunters, — * MargaHtas anU
forms ' "

“ Say rather," replied tlie Cardinal with a smile, “ ' Forms
ante Margaritam ' "

Ail the little court in priestly robes went into ecsta-
sies over the joke. The Cardinal felt slightly comforted ;
he was cpiits with Coppenole ; his pun also had been
applauded.

Now, let those of our readers who have the power of
generalizing an image and an idea, as it is the pleasant
fashion to express it, allow us to ask them if they have a
distinct conception of the spectacle afforded, at the mo-

MASTER JACQUES COFPENOLE.

61

ineiit that we claim their attention, by the vast parallelo“
gram of tlie great hall of the Palace : In the centre of the
hall, against the western wall, a broad and magnificent
platform covered with gold brocade, upon which stepped
in procession, through a small arched doorway, a number
of grave and reverend personages successively aniioiiiiced
by tlie nasal voice of an usher; on the foremost benches,
already seated, various venerable figures wrapped in ermine,
velvet, and scarlet ; around the dais, where all was dignity
and silence, below, in front, everywhere, a great crowd
and a great uproar; a thousand eyes from the crowd
fixed upon every face on the platform, a thousand mur-
murs upon the announcement of every name. Certainly
the sight is a strange one, and well wmrthy the attention
of the spectators. But below there, at the extreme end,
what is that kind of trestle-work with four motley pup-
pets above and four more below ? Who is that pale-faced
man in a black coat beside the boards ? Alas ! dear
reader, that is Pierre Gringoire and his prologue.

We had all entirely forgotten him.

This was precisely what he feared.

From the instant that the Cardinal entered, Gringoire
had never ceased working for the salvation of his prologue.
He at first enjoined the actors, who remained in suspense,
to go on, and to raise their voices ; then, seeing that no one
was listening, he stopped them ; and then, after the inter-
ruption had lasted nearly fifteen minutes, he began to
stamp, to struggle, to question Gisquette and Lienarde,
and to encourage his neighbors to call for the prologue.
All in vain ; not an eye would move from the Cardinal,

; 62 '

NOTBE-DAME.

the embassy, and the. dais, — the sole centre of that vast
circle of visual rays. We must therefore believe, and we
say it with regret, that the prologue was beginning to be
somewhat tedious to the audience at the moment that his
Eminence caused so terrible a diversion. After all, the
spectacle was the same xipon the dais as upon tlie maiide
table, — the conflict between Labor and Eeligion, Kobility
and Trade ; and many people preferred to see them simply,
in living, breathing reality, elbowing and pushing, in flesh
and blood, in this Flemish embassy, in tliis Episcopal
court, beneath the Cardinars robe, beneath tlie jacket of
Coppeiiole, ratlier than painted and decked out, speaking
in artificial verse, and as it were stuffed with straw be-
neath the white and yellow tunics in which Gririgoire had
arrayed them.

However, when our poet saw that peace was beginning
to reign once more, he hit upon a stratagem which might
have saved all

'' Sir/' said he, turning towards one of his neighbors, a
good fat fellow with a patient face, suppose they begin
again ? "

Begin what ? ” said the neighbor.

Why, the mystery ! " said Gringoire.

If you like/' responded his neighbor.

This lukewarm approval was enough for Gringoire, and
acting for himself he began to shout, mixing with the
crowd as much as he could, "‘Go on with the miracle*
play 1 Go on 1 "

"'The devil r* said Joannes de Molendino, ''what are
they bawling about over there?” (For Gringoire made

^MASTER JACQUES COPFENOLE.

63

noise enough for four.) Say, boys, is n't the play done ?
Tliey want to have it all over again ; it 's not fair.”

Ifo, no ! ” cried the students. '' Down with the mys-
tery ! down with it I ”

But Gringoire seemed ubiquitous, and shouted louder
tlian before, '' Go on ! go on ! "

These outcries attracted the attention of the Cardinal.

“ Bailiff,” he said to a tall dark man seated near him,
'' are those devils caught in a font of holy water, that they
make such an infernal noise?”

The Bailiff of the Palace was a species of amphibious
magistrate, a sort of bat of the judicial order, partaking at
once of the nature of the rat and the bird, the judge and
the soldier.

He approached Iiis Eminence, and, not without serious
fears of his displeasure, stammered out an explanation of
the popular rniscoiiduct, — that noon had come before his
Eminence, and that the actors were obliged to begin with-
out awaiting his Eminence.

The Cardinal burst out laughing.

Upon my word, the Eector of the University had better
have done as much. What say you, Master Guillaume
Eym?”

My Lord,” replied Gitiliaume Eym, " let us be content
that w^e have escaped half the play. It is just so much
gained.”

May those rascals go on with their performance ? ”
asked tlie Bailiff.

'' Go on, go on,” said the Cardinal ; " it ’s all the vsame to
me. I will read my breviary meantime,”

64

NOTl^E-DAME.

Tiie Bailiff advanced to- the. edge of the platforin aud
cried aloud, after imposing silence by a wave of liis liaiicl;
‘'Citizens, commoners, and residents: to satisfy those who
wish the play to begin again aud those who wish, it to end,
his Eminence orders that it be continued,”

Both parties were forced to submit. However, the
author and the audience long cherished a grudge against
tlie Cardinal

The characters on the stage accordingly resumed their
recital, and Gringoire hoped tliat the rest of his work at
least would be heard. This hope soon proved as illu-
sory as all the rest. Silence was indeed restored to a cer-
tain extent among the audience; but Gringoire liad not
remarked that, at tlie moment when the Cardinal gave
the order to go on, the dais was far from being filled,
and that in the train of the Flemish embassy came oilier
personages forming part of the procession, whose names
and titles, shouted out in the midst of his prologue by
tlie intermittent cry of the usher, made many ravages in
it. Imagine the effect, in the midst of a play, of tlie
shrill voice of an usher uttering between two rli vines,
and often between two hemistiehs, such parentheses as
these : —

" Master Jacques Charmolue,' king’s attorney in the
Ecclesiastical Court 1 ”

"Jehan de Harlay, esquire, keeper of the office of cuiw
tain of the watch of the city of Paris!”

'' Master Galiot de Genoilliac, knight, lord of Brussac,
chief of the king’s ordnance!”

“ Master l')reux-Eagiiier, inspector of the woods and

MASTER JACQUES COFFENOLE. 65

Witters of our lord the king, in the lands of France^ Cluiro-
pagiie, and Brie ! ”

'' Master Louis de Graville, knight, councillor, and cham-
berlain to the king, admiral of France, keeper of the
forest of Vincennes!”

Master Denis Le Mercier, guardian of the Home for
the Blind of Paris I etc.

This at last became unendurable.

This strange accompaniment, which made it very hard
to follow the play, enraged Griiigoire all the more because
he could not blind himself to the fact that the interest was
constantly increasing, and that all his work needed was to
be heard. It was indeed difficult to conceive of a more
ingenious and more dramatic context. The four characters
of the prologue were lamenting their terrible embarrass-
ment, when Venus in person (vmi incessu patvAt elect) ap-
peared before them, clad in a fine coat of mail, emblazoned
with the ship from the seal of the city of Paris. She came
herself to claim the dolphin promised to the fairest of the
fair. Jupiter, whose thunder was beard muttering in the
dressing-room below, supported her claim, and the goddess
was about to triumph, — that is, speaking without meta-
phor, to marry the Dauphin, — when a young child, habited
in white damask and holding a daisy (an obvious allusion
to the Lady of Flanders), came to contest the prize with
Venus. Theatrical effect and sudden change of affairs !
After some controversy, Venus, Margaret, and those behind
tlie scenes agreed to refer the matter to the wise decision
of tlie Holy Virgin. There was also another fine part, that
of Don Pedro, King of Mesopotamia; but amid so many

66

NOTRE~mME.

inteiiTiiptions it was difficult to discover the ubjeet of Iiis
introduction. All these characters came up the ladder.

But it all was in vain ; none of these beauties were ap-
preciated or understood. With the CardinaFs entrance, an
invisible and magical cord seemed suddenly to draw all
eyes from tlie marble table to the dais, from the southern
to the western jxjrtion of the hall. N'othing could free the
audience from the spell ; every eye was iixe<l, and tluj iieAV-
comers and their accursed names, and their faces and ilieir
dresses, were a perpetual source of distraction. it was
heartrending. Save for Gisquette and Lidnarde, who oc-
casionally turned away when Gringoire pulled them by the
sleeve ; save for the patient fat neighbor, no one listened
to, no one looked at the poor forsaken morality. Grin-
goire saw nothing but profiles.

With what bitterness he saw his whole framework of
fame and poetry crumble away bit by bit 1 And to think
that this very mob had been on the point of revolting
against the Bailiff, from sheer impatience to hear his .
work ! Now that they had it, they cared nothing for it, —
this same performance which began amid such universal
applause 1 Eternal ebb and flow of popular favor 1 To
think that they had come so near hanging the Bailifl-’s
men 1 What would he not have given to recover that
golden hour I

The usher’s brutal monologue ceased at last ; every one
had arrived, and Gringoire breathed again ; the actors went
bravely on. But then what should Master Co]>penole, the
hosier, do but rise suddenly; and Gringoire heard him utter,
amid universal attention, this abominable speech:- — -

MASTER JACQUES COPPENOLE.

67

Citizens and squires of Paris, I know not, by God s
cross I wliat we are doing here. I do indeed see in yo]ider
corner, upon those boards, people who look as if they were
spoiling for a fight. I doif t know whether that is what
you call a 'mystery/ but it is not at all amusing : they
abuse one another, and get no farther. For full fifteen
niinutes I have been waiting for the first blow ; nothing
comes ; they are cowards, who deal in no oilier weapons
tlian insults. You ought to fetch a few wrestlers from
London or Rotterdam, and then you ’d have a treat ! You
would see blows that could be heard all over the place;
but those fellows yonder are a disgrace. They might^ at
least give us a Morris-dance or some other mummery!
This is not what I was told I should see; I was promised
a Feast of Fools and the election of a Lord of Misrule.
We have our Lord of Misrule in Ghent, too; and we're
not beliind you in that, by God's cross ! But this is how
we do it: we collect a crowd, as you do here ; then every
man in his turn puts his head through a hole and pulls a
face at the rest ; he who makes the ugliest is chosen pope
by popular acclaim; there! It's very amusing. Would
you like to choose your pope after the fashion of my
country ? At least it would be better than listening to
those chatterboxes. If they will come and make their
grimaces through the window, they can Join the game.
What say you, Sir Citizens ? There are quite enough
absurd specimens of both sexes here to give us a good
Fleraisli laugh, and we have ugly mugs enough to hope
for sf)me fine grimaces."

Gringoire longed to answer ; but amazement, anger, in-

M

HOTRE-IMMK.,

digiiation, robbed hiin of ■speecli. ' Moreoveiv the proposal
of the popular hosier was greeted with siicli eiithiisiasiii
by those plaiii citizens who were flattered at being dubbed
"'Squires,” that all opposition was useless. Nothiiig re-
mained but to follow the current. Gringoire hid his face
ill liis hands, not being lucky enough to liave a cloak to
cover Ills head, like Agamemnon of Timaiitbcs.

QUx4.SIM0D0.

T N the twinkling of an eye, all was ready for the execu-
tiou of Coppell ole’s idea. Citizens, students, aud law-
yers’ clerks set briskly to work. The little chapel opposite
the marble table was chosen as the stage ibr the grimaces.
A broken pane in the pretty rose-window over the door
left free a circle of stone, tlirough which it was agreed tliat
the contestants should thrust their heads. To reach it, all
were obliged to climb upon a couple of casks, which had
been discovered somewhere and set one upon the other.
It was settled that all candidates, men or women (for a
papess might be choseii), lest the effect of their grimaces
sliould lie weakened, should cover their faces and remain
hidden in the chapel until the proper moment to appeal'.
In less than an instant tlie chapel was filled with aspirants,
upfui wliom the door was closed.

70 QUASIMODO.

C>^:)ppenole, from liis seat, directed everythiog. arniiiged
everytliiiig. During the confusion the ('ardiiuil, no less
disconcerted than Gringoire, withdrew with all Iiis irnii],
feigning business and vespers ; the same crowd which had
been so stirred by his coming, showing not the least emo-
tion at his departure. Guillaume liym was tlie only one
who observed his Eminencels flight. Popular attention, like
the sun, pursued its course ; starting from one end of the
hall, after pausing for >some time in the centre, it was now
at the other end. The marble table, the Inocaded dais,
had had their day ; it was the turn of Louis XL's chapeL
T!ie field was now clear lor e\^ery kind of folly. Xo one
remained -but tlie Flemings and the vulgar herd.

The wry faces began. The first to appear at the win-
dow, with eyelids inverted until they showed the red, a
cavernous mouth, and a forehead wrinkled like the boots of
a huSvSar under the Empire, produced such inextinguish-
able laughter, that Homer would have taken all these
clowns for gods. And yet, the great liall was anything
V)ut an Olympus, and Gringoire’s poor fJupiter knew this
better than any one. A second, a third wry face followed,
then another, and another ; and still the shouts of laughter
find stamps of delight increased. There was a certain
peculiar intoxication in the spectacle, a certain p<jlent
ecstasy and fascination which it would be hard to explain
to the reader of our own day and society. Let him im-
agine a series of faces presenting in turn every geometric
form, from the triangle to the trape^sium, from tlie caine to
the polyhedron; every human expression, from rage to
lust ; every age, from the wrinkles of tlie new-born babe

QUASIMODO.

' 71 :

to the i iirrows of the old and dying ; every religious
phantjisnn'igoria, from Faunus to Beelzebub ; every animal
profile, from the jaws of the dog to the beak of the bird,
from the boar’s head to the pig’s snout. Let him picture to
himself all the grotesque heads carved on the Pont hfeuf,
those petrified nightmares from the hand of Germain
Piion, taking breath and life, and coming in turn to gaze
at you with fiery eyes ; all the masks from a Venetian car-
nival passing before your glass, — in one word, a human
kaleidoscope.

The revelry became more and more Flemish. Teniers
could have given but an imperfect idea of it I Imagine
Salvator Rosa’s battle-piece turned into a bacchanal feast.
There were no longer students, ambassadors, townspeo-
ple, men, or women; no longer a Clopiii Troiiillefou, a
Gilles Lecornu, a Simone Quatrelivres, or a Robin Pousse-
pain. All distinctions died in the common license. The
great liall ceased to be anything but a vast furnace of
effrontery and mirth, wherein every mouth was a cry,
every face a grimace, every individual a posture ; the
sum total howled and yelled. The strange faces which
took their turn in gnashing their teeth through the rose-
window were like so many brands cast into the flames ;
and from this effervescent mob arose, like steam from a
furnace, a sharp, shrill, piercing sound, like the buzz of
a gnat’s wings.

'' Oil, confound it ! ”

J list look at that face I ”

'' That ’s nothing 1”

Let ’s have another ! ”

■.72;. : , , 7 H0TRE-DAMI3. ■

“ (luillemette MaugerepuiSj do look at 'that biiirs head !
it only lacks horns. It is not your husband.”

“'Another ! ”

“J]y the Pope's head.! what 's . the '• meaiiiagy' of that
contortion ? ”

''Hollo there! that's not fair. You should' show only
your face.”

"That damned Perrette Callebotte ! She is just capable
of such a thing.”

" Noel 1 Noel!”

" I 'm smothering ! ”

" There ’s a felhjw whose ears are too big to go through ! ”

. But we must do justice to our friend Jehan. Amidst
this uproar he was still to be seen perched upon his pillar,
like a cabin-boy on a topsail. He exerted himself with
incredible fury. His mouth was opened wide, and there
issued from it a yell which no one heard, — not that it was
drowned by the general clamor, tremendous though it wars ;
but because it undoubtedly rea(;lied the limit of audible
shrillness, — the twelve tliousaiul vibrations of San vein* or
the eight tliousand of Biot.

As for Gringoire, the first moment of depression over,
lie recovered Ids composure. He braced himself to meet
adversity. "Goon!” he cried for the third tinui to his
actors, whom he regarded as mere talking-machines ; tlien,
as lie strode up and down in front of the miirhlo tiihlc, he
■was seized with a desire to appear in liis turn at the {•hapel
window, were it only for tlie pleasure of making faia‘>s at
that ungrateful mob. " But no, that would he unworthy
of us ; no vengeance. Let us struggle on to the end/’ lie

QUASIMODO.

7o,

murmured ; '' the power of poetry over the people is great ;
I will bring them back Let us see whether wry faces or
'polite learning will triumph.” : ■

Alas 1 he was left the only spectator of his play.

It was even worse than'' before* Now he saw nothing
but people's backs.

I am wrong. The patient fat man, whom he had already
consulted at a critical moment, Was still turned towards the
theatre. As for Gisquette and Lidnarde, they had long
since deserted. ; : : ■ ;

Gringoire w-as touched to the heart by the fidelity of his
only listener. He went up to hirn and addressed him,
shaking him slightly by the arm; for the worthy man
was leaning against the railing in a light doze.

Sir/' said Gringoire, " I thank you.”

'' Sir/' replied the fat fellow with a yawn, '' for what ? ”

''I see what annoys you,” resumed the poet; 'Gt is all
this noise which prevents you from hearing readily. But
be cairn I your name shall be handed down to posterity.
Your name, if you please ?.”

Eenauld Chttteau, Keeper of the Seals of the Ch^telet,
at Paris, at your service.”

“ Sir, you are the sole representative of the muses here,”
said Gringoire.

“ You are too kind, sir,” replied the Keeper of the Seals
of the CLnttelet.

''You are the only man,” added Gringoire, "who has
paid proper attention to the play. How do you like it ? ”

" Ha, ha ! ” replied the fat magistrate, who was but half
awake, " jolly enough, in truth ! ”

74 ' ■ ■ NOTRE-DiVMB. ■ '

Griiigoii'e was forced 4-o content himself with this ■ eulogy ;
for a storni of applause, mingled witli prodigious shouts,
cut short tlieir conversation. ■ The Lord of Misrule was
elected;,,

''Noel! Noedi Noel!” shouted the people on all sides.

That was indeed a marvellous grin whicii now beamed
through the hole in the rose-window. After all tlie pen-
tagonal, liexagoiial, and heteroclitic faces which had followed
one another in (prick succession at the window without
realizing that ideal of the grotesque constructed by imagi-
nation exalted by revelry, it required nothing less to
gain the popular vote than the sublime grimace which liad
just dazzled the assembly. Master Coppenole liimself ap-
plauded ; and Clopin Trouillefou, wlio had competed for the
prize (and Heaven knows to what intensity of ugliness his
features could attain), confessed himself conquered. We
will do the same. We will not try to give the reader any
idea of that tetrahedron-like nose, of that liorseslioe-shaped
tnouth ; of that small left eye overhung by a busliy red
eyebrow, wliile the right eye was completely hidden l.)y
a monstrous wart ; of those uneven, broken teeth, with sad
gaps liere and there like the battlements of a fortress ;
of that callous lip, over whicli one of these teeth projected
like an elepliantts tusk ; of tliat forked (Lin ; and espe-
cially of the exprcission pervading all this, — that uiixture
of malice, amazement, and melancholy. Imagine, if you
can, that comprehensive sight.

The vote was unanimous; the crowd rushed into tlie
chapel, Tliey returned leading the fortunate Lord of M'is-
rule in triuinpli. Ihit it was then only tliat surprise a,nd

75

QUASIMODO;

admiration reacliecl their highest pitch ; the grimace was
his iiatuiuiface. 7;

Or rather the entire man was a grimace. A large head
bristling with red hair ; between his shoulders an enornioiis
liump, with a corresponding prominence in front; legs and
thighs so singularly crooked that they touched only at the
knees, and, seen from the front, resembled two reaping-
hooks united at the handle ; broad feet, huge hands ; and,
with all this deformity, a certain awe-inspiring air of vigor,
agility, and courage ; strange exception to the rule which
declares power, as well as beauty, to be the result of har-
mony, — such was the pope whom the fools had chosen to
reign over them.

He looked like a giant broken to pieces and badly
cemented together.

When this species of Cyclop appeared upon the thresh-
old of the chapel, motionless, thickset, almost as broad as
he was long, “ the square of Ins base,” as a great man once
expressed it, the people recognized him instantly, by his
parti-colored red and purple coat spangled with silver, and
particularly by the perfection of his ugliness, and cried
aloud with one voice : —

'' It is Quasimodo, the bell-ringer ! It is Quasimodo, the
liumpback of IsTotre-Dame 1 Quasimodo, the one-eyed 1
Quasimodo, the bandy-legged 1 Noel ! Noel 1 ”

Tlic poor devil evidently had an abundance of nick-
names to choose from. ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ . <

Let all pregnant women beware ! ” cried the students.
Or all those who hope to he so,” added eloaiines.

In fact, the women hid their faces.

76 ” : NOTRE-DAME.

''Oil, the xigly monkey !” said one of them.

As wicked as he is ugly,” added another.

'' He 's the veiy Devil/' added a thi^^^^^^

" I am unlucky enough to live near ,Notiti~l)a I hear
him x^rowling among the gutters by night.”

"With the cats.” ‘

" He sal way son our roofs.”

" He casts spells upon us through the chimneys.”

" The other evening he came^ and pulled a face at me
through the window. I thought it was a man. He gave
me such a fright 1 ”

"I'm sure he attends the Witches’ Sabbath. Once he
left a broomstick on my leads.”

" Oh, wliat a disagreeable luiinpbaek’s face lie has 1 ”

" Oh, the villanous creature I ”

" Faugh I” ^

The men, on the contrary, were charmed, and applauded.

Quasimodo, the object of tliis npioar, still stood at the
chapel door, sad and serious, letting himself be admired.

A student (Eobin Poussepain, I think) laugiied in his
very face, and sr^newhat too close. Quasimodo meridy
took him by the belt and cast him ten paces away through
the crowd ; all without uttering a word.

Master Coppenole, lost in wonder, approaclied him.

"By God's cross and the Holy Father! you are tlit*
most lovely monster that I ever saw in my life. Yon de-
serve to be pope of Eome as well as of Paris.”

So saying, he laid his hand sportively upon his slioulder.
Quasimodo never budged. Coppenole continued : —

Yon Ye a rascal with wEom I liave a longing to feost,

QUASIMODO.

77

were it to cost me a new doiizain of twelve poiiiids Tours.
What say you ?

Quasimodo made no answer.

“ By God’s cross I said the hosieiv “ you Te not deaf,
are you V

He was indeed deaf.

Stiil, he began to lose his temper at Coppenole’s proceed-
ings, and turned suddenly towards him, gnashing his teeth

so savagely that the Flemish giant recoiled, like a bull- dog
before a cat.

Tlien a circle of terror and respect, whose radius was not
less than fifteen geometric paces, was formed about the
sti'ange character. An old woman explained to Master
Coppcnole that Quasimodo was deaf.

“Deafl”. said the hosier, with his hearty Flemish laugh.

By God's cross ! but he is a perfect pope'l ”

.78

NOTKE-DxiME.

‘'Hal I know liini now” cried Jeliaii, wLo had at ]a>:t
descended from Ins capital to view Quasimodo more closely ;
“ it ’s my brother the archdeacon's bell-ringer, tlood-day,
Quasimodo"! ’’

"Wliat a devil of a fellow!” said Eobiii Poussepaiii,
still aching from liis fall. ''He appears: he’s a hump-
back ; he walks : he 's bandy-legged ; he looks at you : he
is blind of one eye ; you talk to liiin : be is deaf. By
the way, what use does tliis Polyphemus make of his
tongue ? ”

" He talks when lie likes/' said the old woman ; " lie
grew deaf from ringing the bells. He is not diiuil).”

That 's all he lacks/' remarked Jehan.

"And he has one eye too many/' said Robin Poussepain.

"Hot at all/' judiciously observed Jehan. "A one-eyed
man is far more incomplete than a blind one. He knows
what he lacks.”

But all the beggars, all the lackeys^ all the cutpurses,
together with the students, had gone in procession to fetch,
from the storeroom of the basoche, the pasteboard tiara and
mock robes of the Pppe of Fools, or Lord of Misrule. Qua-
simodo submitted to be aiuayed in them without a frown,
and with a sort of proud docility. Then he was seated
upon a barrow painted in motley colors. Twelve officers
of the fraternity of fools raised it to their shoulders; and
a sort of bitter, scornful joy dawned upon the morose face
of the Cyclop when he saw beneath his shapeless feet the
heads of so many handsome, straight, and well-made men.
Then the howling, tatterdemalion train set out, as was the
custom, to make the tour of the galleries within the Palace
before parading the streets and public squares.

ESMERALDA.

W E are delighted to be able to inform our readers
that during the whole of this scene Gringoire
and his ‘play had stood their ground. His actors, spuiTed
on by him, had not stopped spouting his verses, and he had
not given over listening. He had resigned himself to the
uproar, and was determined to go on to the bitter end, not
despairing of recovering some portion of public atten-
tion. This ray of hope revived when he saw Quasimodo,
Ooppenole, and the deafening escort of the Lord of Mis-
rule leave the liall with a tremendous noise. The crowd
followed eagerly on their heels. Good I said he to
himself ; '' now w-e have got iid of all the marplots.''

80

NOTEE-DAME.

ITiiforfcuiiately, all the marplots meant the whole audience.
In the twinkling of an eye, the great hall was empty.

To be exact, there still remained a handful of spectators,
some scattered, others grouped around the pillars, women,
old men, .or children, who had had enough of the tumult
and the hurly-burly. Some few students still lingered,
astride of the window-frames, gazing into the square.

‘"Well,” thought Gringoire, '‘here are still enough to
hear the end of my mystery. They are but few, but it is
a picked public, an intellectual audience.”

A moment later, a melody meant to produce the greatest
effect at the appearance of the Holy Virgin, wms missing,
Gringoire saw that his musicians had been borne off by
the procession of the Lord of Misrule. “ Proceed,” he said
stoically.

He went up to a group of townspeople who seemed to
him to be talking about his play. Tliis is the fragment of
conversation which he caught: —

“You know, Master Cheneteau, the Hotel de Havarre,
which belonged to M. de Nemours?”

“ Yes, opposite the Braque Chapel.”

“ Well, the Treasury Department has just let it to Guil-
laume Alexandre, the painter of armorial bearings, for six
pounds and eight pence Paris a year.”

“ How high rents are getting to be ! ”

“Well, well!” said Gringoire with a sigh; “the rest
are listening.”

“ Comrades ! ” shouted one of the young scamps in the
window; “Esmeralda! Esmeralda is in the square!”

This cry had a magical effect* Every one in the hall

ESMEBALDA, ■ • 81

rushed to tlie wind^^ up the walls to get a

glimpse, and repeatingvd' Esmeralda 1 Esmeralda T'

At the same time a great noise of applause was heard
outside.

What do they riieaii by their ' Esmeralda ’ ? said Grin-
goire, clasping his hands in despair. "Oh, heavens! ■ I
suppose it’s the turn of the \vindows now 1’^

He turned back again to the marble table, and saw' that
the play had stopped. It was just the moment when
Jupiter should have appeared with his thuiKler. How
Jupiter stood motionless at the foot of the stage.

Michel Giborne ! ” cried the angry p)oet, " what are
you doing there ? Is that put down in your part ? Go
up, I tell you I”

'‘Alas!” said Jupiter, "one of the students has taken
away the ladder.”

Griiigoire looked. It was but too true. All communi-
cation was cut off between his plot and its solution.

"The rascal!” he muttered; "and why did he carry off
that ladder 1 ”

" That he might see Esmeralda,” piteously responded
Jupiter. " He said, ' Stay, there ’s a ladder which is doing
no one any good T and he took it.”

This was the finishing stroke. Gringoire received it
with submission.

" May the Devil seize you 1 ” said he to the actors ; " and
if I am paid, you shall be too.”

Tiien lie beat a retreat, with drooping head, but last to
leave, like a general wdio has fought a brave fight.

And as he descended the winding Palace staircase, he

NOTRE-DAME.

Biiittered between his teeth: '"A pretty pack of donkeys
and clowns these Parisians are! They come to liear a

miracle-play, and then pay no

heed to it ! Their whole minds mg

are absorbed in anybody and m|

everybody, — in Clopin Trouille- M

toil, the Cardinal, Coppenole,

Quasimodo, the Devil! but in ^

Madame Yirgin Mary not a

wdiit. If I had known, I kl have given you your fill of
Virgin Marys, you boobies! And I, — to come to see
faces, and to see nothing but backs! to be a poet, and to
have tlie success of an apothecary ! True, Homer begged
his way through Greek villages, and Haso died in exile
among the Muscovites. But may the Devil fiay me if I
know what tliey mean by their ' Esmeralda ’ ! Wliat kind
of a word is tliat, anyhow ? It must be Egyptian !

BOOK SECOND.

I.

FROM CHARTBDIS TO SCYLLA.

N ight comes on early in January.

The streets were already dark when
Gringoire left the Palace, This nightfall
j)leased him. He longed to: find some dark and solitary
alley where lie might meditate at his ease, and let the
philosopher apply the first healing balm to the poet's
wounds. Besides, philosophy was his only refuge ; for he
knew not where to find shelter. After the total failure of
his first theatrical effort he durst not return to the lodging;
wliich lie had occupied, opposite the Hay-market, in the
Hue Grenier-sur-rEau, having reckoned upon wdiat the
])rovost was to give him for his epithalamium to pay Mas-
ter Guillaume I.)oulx»Sire, farmer of the taxes on cloven-

84

NOTEE-DAME.

footed animals in Paris, the six months’ imt wM lie
' owed him, axamely, twelve Paris pence, — twelve times the
worth of everything that he owned in the world, in eluding
his breeches, his shirt, and his hat. After a moment’s
pause for reflection, temporarily sheltered under the little
gateway of the prison of the treasurer of the Sainte-Cliapelle,
as to what refuge he should seek for the night, having all
the pavements of Paris at his disposition, he remembered
having noticed, the week before, in the Eue de la Savaterie,
at the door of a Parliamentary Councillor, a stone block for
mounting a mule, and having said to himself that this
stone would, on occasion, make a very excellent pillow
for a beggar or a poet. He thanked Providence for send-
ing him so good an idea ; but as he prepared to cross the
Palace courtyard on his way to the crooked labyrinth of
the City, formed, by the windings of all those antique
sisters, the Eues de la Barillerie, de la Vieille-Draperie,
de la Savaterie, de la Juiverie, etc., still standing at the
present day wdth their nine-story houses, he saw the
procession of the Lord of Misrule, which was also just
issuing from the Palace and rushing across the courtyard,
with loud shouts, an abundance of glaring torches, and
his (Gringoire’s) own music. This sight opened the
wound to his self-esteem; he fled. In the bitterness of
dramatic misfortune, all that recalled the day’s festival
incensed him, and made his wound bleed afresh.

He meant to cross St. Michael’s Bridge; some chil-
dren were careering up and down there with rockets
and crackers*

plague on all fireworks!” said Gringoire; and he

FROM CHARYBDIS TO SGYLLA. 85

turned towards Exchange Bridge. The houses at the head
of the biidge were adorned with three large banners repre-
s§nting the king, the dauphin, and Margaret of Flanders,
and six little bannerets with portraits of the Duke of
Austria, Cardinal Bourbon, M. de Beaujeu, and Madame
Jeanne de France, the Bastard of Bourbon, and I know not
who besides, — all lighted up by torches. The mob gazed
in admiration.

“Lucky painter, Jehan Fourbaultl” said Gringoire, wuth
a heavy sigh ; and he turned his back on banners and ban-
nerets. A street opened directly before him ; it looked so
dark and deserted that he hoped it would afford a way of
escape from every echo as well as every reflection of the
festival : he plunged down it. In a few moments he struck
his foot against something, stumbled, and fell. It was the
big bunch of hawthorn which the members of the basoche
had that morning placed at the door of a president of the
Parliament, in honor of the day. Gringoire bore this new
misfortune bravely ; he rose and walked to the bank of the
river. Leaving behind him the civil and criminal towers,
and passing by the great walls of the royal gardens, along
the unpaved shore wdiere the mud was ankle-deep, he
reached the western end of the City, and for some time
contemplated the islet of the Passeur-aux-Vaches, which
has since vanished beneath the bronze horse on the Pont
ISTeuf. The islet lay before him in the darkness, — a
black mass across the narrow strip of whitish water
which lay between him and it. The rays of a tiny light
dimly revealed a sort of beehive-shaped hut in which the
cows’ ferryman sought shelter for the night.

86; ' KOTRE-DAME. ;■ /

Lucky ■ thoiiglit Gringoire,;: .'"you never
dream of glory, and you write no wedding songs ! Wliat
are the marriages of kings and Burguiidiaii ducliesses to
you ? You know no Marguerites save those which grow
upon your turf in April for the pasturage of your cowsl
and I, poet that I am, am hooted, and I shiver, and I owe
twelve pence, and the soles of my shoes are so thin tliat you
might use tliern for glasses in your lantern. Thanks, ieriy-
man ! Your hut rests my eyes and makes me forget Paris.”

He was roused from his almost lyric ecstasy by a huge
double-headed St. John’s cracker, which wvas suddenly sent
up from the blessed cabin. The ferryman was taking Ids
part in the festivities of the day, and setting off a fo^v
fireworks.

The explosion set Gringoire^s teeth on edge.

'"Accursed festival !” he exclaimed, ""will you pursue mo
forever, — oh, my God ! even to the ferryman’s house ? ”

FROM CHAKYBDIS TO SCYLLA. 87

He gazed at the Seine at Ms feet, and a horrible teioi^-
■fatioii; overcame him. . ' '■

'‘ All I ’’ said he, " how cheerfully I would drown myself,
if the water were not so cold 1 ”

Then he took a desperate resolve. It was, since he
could not escape from the Lord of Misrule, Jehan Foiir-
bault’s flags, the bunches of hawthorn, the rockets, and
squibs, to plunge boldly into the very heart of the gayety
and go directly to the Grhve.

"At leasV thought he, "I may find some brands from
the bonfire to w^arm myself, and I may sup on some crumbs
from the three great sugar escutcheons which were to be
served on the public sideboard.”

n.

THE GREVE.

B ut very slight traces now remain of the Grfeve as it
existed at the time of which we write ; all that is
left is the picturesque little tower at the northern corner
of the square ; and that, already buried beneath the vul-
gar whitewash which encrusts the sharp edges of its carv-
ings, will soon disappear perhaps, drownied in tliat flood of
new houses which is so rapidly swallowing up all the old
fronts in Paris.

People who, like ourselves, never pass through the Grbve
without giving a glance of sympathy and pity to the poor
little tower, choked between two hovels of the time of
Louis XV., may readily reconstruct in fancy the entire

THE GREYE.

89

mass of buildings to which it belonged, and as it were re-
store the old Gothic square of the fifteenth century.

It was, as it still is, an irregular square, bounded on one
side by the quay, and on the other three by a number of
tall, narrow, gloomy houses. By day one might admire
the variety of its edifices, all carved in stone or wood, and
presenting perfect specimens of the various kinds of me-
dieval domestic architectiire, going back from the fifteenth
to the eleventh century, from the casement window which
was beginning to supersede the pointed arch, to the semi-
circular arch of the Romance period, which gave way to
the pointed arch, and which still occupied below it the
first story of that old house called Roland's Tower, on the
corner of the square nearest the Seine, close to the Rue de
la Tannerie. At night, nothing could be seen of this mass
of buildings but the dark indented line of the roofs stretch-
ing their chain of acute angles round the square. For it is
one of the radical differences between modern and ancient
towns, that nowadays the fronts of the houses. face upon
the squares and streets, and in old times it was the gable
ends. In two centuries the houses have turned round.

In the middle of the eastern side of the square stood a
heavy and hybrid construction composed of three houses
together. It was known by three names, which explain its
history, its purpose, and its architecture. The Dauphin's
House, because Charles V. occupied it while dauphin ; the
Trades House, because it was used as Town Hall ; the
Pillar House {domus ad piloria)^ on account of a series of
thick columns which supported its three stories. There
the city found everything required for a well-to-do town

90 NOTHE-BAME.

like Paris: a chapel, in which to pray to God ; a court
of special pleas, where audience was given, and if neces-
sary “the king’s men put down;” and in the garrets an
“ arsenal ” full of artillery. For the citizens of Paris,
knowing that it is not always enough to pray and plead
for the liberties of the town, always had a good rusty ar-
quebus or two inf eserve in an attic of tlie Town .Hall.

Even then the Grbve had the same forbidding tispect
which the detestable ideas clinging about it awaken, and
the gloomy Town Hall built by Dominique Bocador, '^vhich.
has taken the place of the Pillar House, still gives it. It
must be confessed that a permanent gibbet and pillory, —

“ a justice and a lad-
der,” as they were
then called,— stand-
ing side by side in
the middle of the
flagstones, largely
contributed to make
meii tuiir away from
.t::h a t " f a't.'al s q'u a r'e
■' where; so ■, many be-
ings full of life and
health have died in
agony ; where the
Saint ValliePs fever
was destined to spring to life some fifty years later, —
that disease which was nothing but dread of the scaffold,
the most monstrous of all maladies, because it came not
from God, but from man.

91 ,

THE GRfeVE.

It is a consoling thought (let us say in passing) that the
death penalty, which three hundred years ago still cum-
bered the Grfeve, the Markets, the Place Daiiphine, the
Cross du Trahoir, the Pig-market, the hideous Moiitfaiieon,
the Sergeants® Barrier, Gats® Sguare, St. Denis Gate, Cliam-
peaiix, Baiidet Gate, and St. Jacques Gate, with its iron
wdieels, its stone gibbets, and all its machinery of torture,
permanently built into the pavement ; not to mention the
countless pillories belonging to provosts, bishops, chapters,
abbots, and priors administering .justice ; to say nothing of
the legal drownings in the river Seine, — it is a consolation
that in the present day, having successively lost all the
pieces of her armor, her refinements of torture, her purely
capricious and wilful penal laws, her torture for the ad-
ministration of which she made afresh every five years a
leather bed at the Grand-Chatelet, that ancient sovereign
of feudal society, almost outlawed and exiled from our
cities, hunted from code to code, driven from place to
place, now possesses in all vast Paris but one dishonored
corner of the Grhve, but one wretched guillotine, furtive,
timid, and ashamed, seeming ever in dread of being taken
in the very act, so swiftly does it vanish after it has dealt
its deadly stroke I

BESOS PARA GOLPES.

W HEN Pierre Griiigoire reached the GrJjve, he was
benumbed. He had come by way of the Millers’
Bridge to avoid the mob on Exchange Bridge and J ehan
Fourbault’s flags ; but the wheels of all the bishop’s mills
had bespattered him as he crossed, and his coat was
soaked ; moreover, it seemed to him that the failure of his
play had made him more sensitive to cold than ever. He
therefore made haste to draw near the bonfire which still
blazed gloriously in the middle of the square ; but a con-
siderable crowd formed a circle round about it.

Damned Parisians ! ” said he to himself (for Griiigoire,
like all true dramatic poets, was given to monologues),
'' there they stand blocking my way to the fire 1 and yet 1
greatly need a good warm chimney-corner ; my shoes leak,
and all those cursed mills liave dripped upon roe 1 Deuce
take the Bishop of Paris and his mills ! I would really like
to know what a bishop wants with a mill ! does lie expect

93

to turn miller ? If he is merely waiting for niy curse, I
give it to him cheerfully, and to his cathedral and his
mills into the bargain ! just let 's see if any of

those boors will disturb themselves for me ! What
earth are they doing there ? Warming themselves in-
deed; a fine amuseiiienti Watching to see a hundred
fagots burn; a fine sight, truly ! ’t

Looking more closely, he saw that the circle 'was far
larger than was necessary for the crowd to warm them-
selves at tlie royal bonfire, and that the large number of
spectators was not attracted soleW by the beauty of the
hundred blazing fagots.

O O

In the vast space left free between the crowd and the
fire a young giii was dancing.

Whether this young girl was a human being, pr a fairy,
or an angel, was more than Gringoire, cynic pi lilosopher
and sarcastic poet tliongh he was, could for a moment de-
cide, so greatly was he lascinated l)y the tlazzling vision.

She was not tall, but seemed to be, so proudly erect did
she hold her slender figure. She was brown, but it was
evident that by daylight her skin must have that lovely
golden gleam pecnliai^^ to Spanish and Eomau beauties.
Her tiny foot was Andalusian too, for it fitted both snugly
ami easily into its dainty shoe. She danced, she turned,
she twdrled, upon an antique Persian carpet tlirown care-
lessly heneatli lier feet ; and every time her radiant fig-
ure passed, as she turned, her great black eyes sent forth
lightning Hashes.

Upon her every eye was riveted, every mouth gaped
wide ; and in very truth, as she danced to the hum of the

: 94 , :: V NOTEE-DAME.- V:';:

tainbouriiie which her round and graceful arms held high
above her head, slender, quick and active as any wasp^
with smoothly-fitting golden bodice, her many-colored full
skirts, lierbare shoulders, her shapely legs, from which her
skirts now and then swung away, her black hair, her eyes
of flame, she seemed more than mortal creature.

''Indeed,” thought Gringoire, “she is a salamander, a
nymph, a goddess, a bacchante from Mount Mi'enalus 1 ”

At this moment one of the salamander’s tresses was
loosened, and a bit of brass which had been fastened to it
fell to the ground.

“Alas, no!” said he, “she’s a gypsy.”

All illusion had vanished.

She began to dance once more. She picked up two
swords, md balancing them by their points on her fore-
head, she tAvirled them in one direction while she herself
revolved in another; she was indeed but* a gypsy girl.
But great as was Gringoire’s disenchantment, the picture
was far from being destitute of all charm and beauty ; tlie
bonfire lit it up with a crude red light, which flickered
brightly upon the circle of surrounding figures and the
young girl’s brown face, casting wan reflections, blended
with alternating shadows, into the farthest corners of tlie
square, — on one side upon the black and weatlier-beaten
front of the Pillar House, and on the other upon the cross-
beam of the stone gibbet.

Among the myriad faces dyed scarlet by tlie flames,
there was one which seemed absorbed even beyond all the
rest in gazing at the dancer. It was the face of a man,
austere, calm, and sombre. This man, whose dress was

: BESOS PARA ■GOLPES. ' 95

liuiden by tlie crowd about him, seemed not more than
thirty-five years old, and yet he was bald; he had but a
few gray and scanty locks of hair about his temples ; his
broad high forehead w^as already beginning to be furrowed
With wrinkles, but in his deep-set eyes sparkled an extraor-
dinary spirit of youth, an ardent love of life and depth
of passion. He kept them fixed on the gypsy ; and while
the giddy young damsel danced and fluttered to the de-
light of all, his thoughts seemed to become more and more
melancholy. From time to time a smile and a sigh met upon
his lips, but the smile was far sadder than the sigh.

The young girl stopped at last, breathless, and the peo-
ple applauded eagerly.

Djali I said the gypsy.

Then Gringoire saw a pretty little white goat, active,
alert, and glossy, with gilded horns, gilded hoofs, and a
gilded collar, which he had not before observed, and which
had hitherto remained quietly crouching on a corner of the
carpet, watching its mistress as she danced.

“ Djali,’’ said the dancer, “ it ’s your turn now.”

And sitting down, she gracefully offered the goat her
tambourine,

'' Djali,” she added, what month in the year is this ? ”

The goat raised its fore-foot and struck, once upon the
tand)ouriiie. It was indeed the first month of the year.
The crowd applauded.

'' Djali,” resumed the young girl, turning her tambourine
another way, what day of the month is it?”

Djali lifted his little golden hoof and struck six times
upon tlie tambourine.

96

NOTRE-DAME.

'' Djali/’ continued the daughter of Egypt, with still an-
other twist of the tambourine, “ what time of day is it ?

Djali gave seven blows, and at the same instant the
clock on the Pillar House struck seven.

The people were lost in wonder.

There is sorcery in this,” said a forbidding voice from
the throng. It was the voice of the bald man, who liad
never taken his eyes from the gypsy.

She trembled, and turned towards him ; but fresh
plaudits broke out, and drowned the surly exclamation.

They even elfaced it so completely from her mind that
she went on questioning her goat.

'' Djali, how does Master Guichard Grand-Remy, the
captain of the city pistoleers, walk in the procession at
'Candlemas ? ”

Djali rose on his hind paws and began to bleat, walking
as he did so with an air of such polite gravity that the
whole ring of spectators burst into a laugh at this parody
of the selfish devotion of the captain of pistoleers.

''Djali,” continued the young girl, encouraged by her in-
closing success, " show us how Master Jacques Cliarmolue,
king’s attorney in the Ecclesiastical Court, preaches.”

The goat sat up and began to bleat, waving his fore-feet
in so strange a fashion that, except for the bad Frencli and
the bad Latin, Jacques Oharmolue liimself stood before
you, — gesture, accent, and attitude.

And the crowd applauded louder than before.

"Sacrilege! Profanation!” exclaimed the voice of the
bald-headed man.

The gypsy turned again.

"97

EESOS PARA GOLPEB.

"'All!” said sheAAt is that ugly man r7 Tiieii pro-
jecting her lower lip Jjeyoiid the iippe« one, she made a
little face which seemed habitual with her, pirouetted on
her heel, and began to collect the. gifts of the multitude in
her tambourine. "

Big pieces of silver, little pieces of silver, pennies, and
farthings rained into it. Suddenly she passed Gringoire.
He put his hand in his pocket so heedlessly that she
stopped. “ Tlie devil 1 ” said the poet, as lie found reality
at the bottom of his pocket, ~ that is to say, an empty
void. But there stood the pretty girl, looking at him with
her big eyes, holding out her tambourine, and waiting.
Gringoire was in an agony.

If he had had the wealth of Peru in his pocket, he would
certainly have given it to the dancing-girl ; but Gringoire
did not possess the wealth of Peru, and moreover America
liad not tlien been discovered.

Luckily, an unexpected event came to his rescue.

''Will you be gone, you gypsy grasshopper?’’ cried a
sharp voice from the darkest corner of the square.

Tile young girl turned in terror. This was not the voice
of the bald-headed man; it was a woman’s voice, — the
voice of a malicious and bigoted person.

However, the cry which alarmed the gypsy delighted a
band of roving children.

"It’s the recluse of the Tour-Eoland,” they shouted
with riotous laughter, " It ’s the nun scolding ! Has n’t
she had her supper? Let’s carry her some bits from
the city sideboard ! ”

All ruslied towards the Pillar House.

98' ' ■ ■ ■' KOTIiE-BAM'E. -

' Giiiigoire .seized .th occasion of 'the dancer’s distress
to disappear. Tli^'' children's' shouts reminded liiiii that
he too iiad not supped. He therefore hastened to the
sideboard. But the little scamps had better legs than he ;
when he arrived, they had swept the table clear. There
was not even a paltry cake at live cents the pound I’euiain-
ino*. Nothino' was left on the wall but the delicate Heurs-

O. -O',,

de-lis, twined with rose branches, painted in 1434 by
Mathieu Biterne. That was a meagre repast.

It ’s a tiresome matter to go to bed without suj;)|)er; it
is still less agreeable to have no supper and not to know
where to find a bed. This was Gringoire’s condition. No
bread, no shelter ; he was goaded on every hand by neces-
sity, and he found necessity very crabbed and cross. He
had long since discovered the truth that Jupiter created
mankind in a fit of misanthropy, and that throughout a
wise man’s life fate keeps his philosophy in a state of siege.
As for himself, the blockade had never been so complete.
He heard his stomach sounding a parley, and he thought
it very improper for an evil destiny to overcome his phi-
losophy by famine.

He was becoming more and more absorbed in tliese mel-
ancholy reflections, when a peculiar although imdudious
song suddenly roused him from them. The young gypsy
girl was singing.

Her voice was like her dancing, like her beauty. It was
charming, and not to be defined, — possessing a pure and
sonorous quality, something ethereal and airy. There was
a constant succession of bursts of melody, of unexpected
cadences, then of simple phrases mingled with shrill sibi-

99

BESOS PARA GOLPES.

laiit notes : iiow runs and^ trills which would have baffled
a nightingale, but which never ceased to be harmonious ;
then softly iindulating octaves rising and falling like
the bosom of the youthful singer. Her fine features ex-
pressed every caprice of her song with singular flexibility,
from the most lawless inspiration to the chastest dignity.
At one instant she seemed a mad woman, at the next a
queem

The words which she sang were in a language unknown
to Gringoire, and apparently one with which she was not
herself familiar, so little connection had the expression
which she lent lier song with the ineaning of the words.
Thus these four lines in her mouth became wildly gay :

“ IJn cofre de gran riqueza
Hallaron dentro un pilar,

Dentro del, niievas banderas
Con figuras de espantar. ”

And a moment later, the tone in which she uttered the
words, —

‘ ‘ Alarabes de cavallo
Sin poderse menear,

Con espadas, y los cuellos,

Baliestas de buen ecliar,”

brought the tears into Gringoire’s eyes. And yet her song
was full of joy, and she seemed to sing like a bird, from
slieer happiness and freedom from care.

The gypsy’s song had troubled Gringoire’s reverie, but
as the swan troubles the water. He listened in a sort of
ecstasy which rendered him oblivious of all else. It was
the first instant, for some hours, in which lie had felt no
pain.

iOii

NOTKE»DAME,

The inouiei.it was brief.

The same woman’s voice which had cut short tlic ,^iiTs
dance now iiiteiTupted her song.

''Will you hold your tongue, you iniernal erichet ? " she
cried, still irom the same dark comer oi‘ the sqiune.

The poor "cricket” stopped short. Gringoire clap] aid
Ills hands to his ears.

‘'Oh,” h.e exclaimed, "cursed- be that rusty saw, vdiich
breaks tl'ie lyre 1 ”

And the other listeners grumbled with him.

" Deuce take the nun ! ” .said more than one. And the
invisible old marplot miglit have liad reason to repent of
lier aggressions, liad not their thoughts been diverted at
that very moment by, the procession of the Lord of Mi.s-
rule, which,, having trayersed many a street and sqiuire,
now appeared in the Gr^ive with all its torches and all its

This procession, ,\vliich our readers saw as it started from
the Palace, had taken shape as it marched, enlisting all
the available vagabonds and scamps and idle thieves in
Paris ; so that it presented quite a respectable appearamai
when it reached the Grfeve.

First came the bani-stormers,^ the chief cackling cove -
at the head, on horseback, with Iiis aids on foot, Iioldiug
his stirrup and bridle. Behind walked the rest of the
barn-stormers, male and female, with their little ones
clamoiing on their backs:; all, men, women, and children,
in rags and tatters. Then came the thieves’ brotbeibood ;
that is, all the robbers in France, ranged according to tlieir

^ Strolling actors.

Hn liter.

BESOS PAKA GOLPES. 101

degree, the least expeil corning first. Thus filed along?
four by four, armed with the various insignia of their
degrees. In this singular faculty, most of them maimed,
sonie halt, some with but one arm, were shop-lifters, uiock
pilgrims, tramps who pretended to have been bitten by
wolves, dummy chuckers,^ thimble-riggers, sham Abrams,^
Jeremy Diddlers, sham cripples, mumpers, pallyaids;" show-
full pitchers,^ rogues pretending to have been burned out,
cadgers, old soldiers, high-flyers, swell mobsnieii, gonnofs,'^
flash coves, — a list long enough to weary Horner hini-
self. Til the centre of the conclave of gonnofs and flash
coves might dimly be distinguished the head of the
thieves' brotherhood, the Grand Goere,'’ or king of rogues,
squatting in a small cart, drawn by two big dogs. After
the fraternity of thieves came the Empire of Galilee.^
Guillaume Eousseau, Emperor of the Galilees,’^ matched
majestic in his purple robes stained with wine, preceded
by mountebanks fighting and dancing Pyrrhic dances, sur-
rounded by his mace-bearers, tools, and the clerks of the
Court of Exchequer. Last came the basoche (the corpo-
ration of lawyers' clerks), with their sheaves of maize'
crowned with flowers, their black gowns, their music
wprtliy of a Witches’ Sabbath, and their huge yellow wax
candles. In the midst of this throng the high officials
of the fraternity of fools bore upon their slioulders a
barrow more heavily laden with tapers than the shrine

1 Mock epileptics. ^ naked, feigning insanity.

3 Men with counterfeit sores.

^ Passer of counterfeit coin. ^ Arch thieves.

Gan]>)lcrs. Card-sharpers.

102 NOTliE-DAME.

of St. Genevifeve in time of plague ; and upon this barrow
rode resplendent, with crosier/ cope, and mitre, the new
Lord of Misrule, the bell-ringer of Notre-Dame/ Qoasi-
Hiodo the Humpback.

Each division of this grotesque procession had its own
peculiar music. The barn-stormers drew discordant notes
from their balafos and their African tabors. The thieves,
a far from musical race, W' ere still using the viol, the cow-
herd’s horn, and the quaint rubeb of the twelfth century.
Hor was the Empire of Galilee much more advanced :
their music was ^almost wholly confined to some wretched
rebec dating back to the infancy of the art, still imprisoned
within the rt-la-mi. But it was upon the Lord of Misrule
that all the musical riches of the period were lavished in
one magnificent cacophony. There were treble rebecs,
counter-tenor rebecs, tenor rebecs, to say nothing of flutes
and brass instruments. Alas 1 our readers may remember
that this was Gringoire’s orchestra.

It is difficult to convey any idea of the degree of proud
and sanctimonious rapture which Quasimodo’s hideous and
painful face had assumed during the journey from the
Palace to the Gihve. This was the finst thrill of vanity
which he had ever felt. Hitherto he had known nothing
but humiliation, disdain of his estate, and disgust for liis
person. Therefore, deaf as he was, he enjoyed, like any
genuine pope, the plaudits of that mob whicli he had Imted
because he felt that it hated him. What mattered it to
him that Iiis subjects were a collection of fools, crij>ples,
thieves, and beggars ! They were still subjects, and lie a
sovereign ! And he took seriously all the mock applause,

BESOS BABA GOLPES.

103

all the vsatirical respect with which, it must be confessed,
there was a slight mixture of very real fear in the hearts
of the throng. For the humped back was strong; for the
bandy legs were nimble ; for the deaf ears were malicious :
three qualities which tempered the ridicule.

Moreover, we are far from fancying that the new Lord
of Misrule realized clearly either his own feelings or those
which he insphed. The spirit lodged in that irapj^rfect
body was necessarily something dull and incomplete.
Therefore what he felt at this instant was absolutely vague,
indistinct, and confused to him. Joy only pierced the
cloud; pride prevailed. The sombre and unhappy face
was radiant.

It was not therefore without surprise and fright tliat,
at the moment when Quasimodo in this semi-intoxication
passed triumphantly before the Pillar House, the specta-
tors saw a man dart from the crowd and snatch from his
hands, with a gesture of rage, his gilded crosier, the badge
of his mock papacy.

This man, this rash fellow, was no other than the bald-
headed character who, the instant before, mingling with the
group about the gypsy girl, had chilled her blood with his
words of menace and hatred. He was clad now in eccle-
siastical garb. Just as he stepped forward from the crowd,
Gringoive, who had not noticed him until then, recognized
him. ‘‘ Why ! ” said he with an exclamation of amazement,
‘‘ it is my master in Hermes, Don Claude Frollo, tlie arch-
deacon ! What the devil does he want with that ugly
one-eyed man ? He ’ll be swallowed up alive ! ”

Indeed, a cry of terror rose. The terrible Quasimodo

104

KOTEE-DAME.

’yifCi

flung himself headlong from his barrow, and the wuiiien
turned away their eyes that they might not see the arch-
deacon rent limb from limb.

BESOS PARA ^ GOLPES.

.105

Quasiiiiodo still knel^^ with bowed head and clasped
'hands.

Then followed between them a strange dialogue in signs
and gestures, for neither spoke, — the priest, erect, angry,
threatening, imperious; Quasimodo, prostrate, humble,
suppliant. And yet it is very certain that Quasimodo
could have crushed the priest With his thumb.

At last the archdeacon, rudely shaking Quasimodo’s
powerful shoulder, signed to him to rise and follow.

Quasimodo rose.

I'ools, their first stupor over,

strove to defend their pope, so abruptly dethroned. The
thieves, the Galilees, and all the lawyers' clerks yelped
about tlie priest.

Quasimodo placed himself before the priest, put the

106

NOTRE-DAME.

muscles of his fists in play, and glared at his assailants,
gnashing his teeth like an enraged tiger.

The priest resumed his wonted sombre gravity, beck-
oned to Quasimodo, and withdrew silently.

Quasimodo walked before him, scattering the crowd as
he passed,

When they had made their way through the people and
the square, a swarm of curious idlers attempted to follow
them. Quasimodo then took up the position of rearguard,
and followed the archdeacon backwards, short, tlnckset,
crabbed, monstrous, bristling, gathering himself together,
licking his tusks, growling like a wild beast, and driving
the crowd before him in waves, with a gesture or a look.

They vanished down a dark narrow street, where none
dared venture after them; so effectually did the mere
image of Quasimodo grinding his teeth bar the way.

Strange enough ! said Gringoire ; '' but where the
deuce am I to find a supper?”

THE INCONVENIENCES OF FOLLOWING A PRETTY
WOMAN IN THE STREET AT NIGHT.

RINGOIRE determined to follow the gypsy girl at
^ any risk. He had seen her go down the Rue de
la Coutellerie wdth her goat ; he therefore went down the
Rue de la Coutellerie.

“ Why not ? said he to himself.

Gringoire, being a practical philosopher of the streets of
Paris, Iiad observed that nothing is more favorable to rev-
erie than the pursuit of a pretty woman when you don’t
know where she is going. In this voluntary surrender of

108

NOTKE-DAME.

your own free will, this caprice yielding to another caprice,
all ixnconscious of siibniission, there is a mixture of odd in-
depeiideiice and blind obedience, a certain happy inodium
between slavery and liberty, which pleased Gi’ingoiie, a
mind essentially mixed, undetermined, and complex, caii*y-
iiig everything to extremes, forever wavering betwixt all
human propensities, and neutralizing them the one hy the
other. He frequently compared himself to Mahomet’s
tomb, attracted in opposite directions by two hjadstoncis,
and perpetually trembling between top and bottom, be-
tween the ceiling and the pavement, between dcscejit and
ascent, between the zenith and the nadir.

If Grirjgoire were’ living now, what a golden mean
he would observe between the classic and . romantic
schools ! ^

Hut lie was not sufiiciently jjrimitive to live three hun-
dred years, and 't is a pity, His absence leaves a void but
too deeply felt to-day.

However, nothing puts a man in a better mood for fol-
lowing people in the street (especially when, they happen
to be women), a thing Griugoire was always ready to do,
than not knowing where he is to sleep.

lie accordingly walked thoughtfully along behind the
young girl, w’ho quickened her pace and urgeil on her
pretty goat, as she saw the townspeople were all going
home, and the taverns — the only shops open upon tliis
general holiday — were closing.

‘‘ After all,’’ thought he, ''she must have a lodging some-
where ; gypsies are generous. Who knowxs . . .

And there w(3re some very pleasant ideas interua.>ven

mLLOWim A WOMAN IN THE . STEBET.

109

with the points of suspension that followed this mental
'reticence.

Still, from time to time, as he passed the last belated
groups of citizens shutting their doors, he caught frag-
ments of their talk, which broke the chain of his bright
liypotheses.

Now, it was two old men chatting together.

Master Thibaut Fernicle, do you know it is cold ?

(Gringoire had known this since the winter first set

in.)

'' Yes, indeed, Master Boniface Disome ! Are we going
to have another winter like the one we had three years
ago, in ’80, when wood cost eight pence the measure ?”

'' Bah 1 that ’s nothing, Master Thibaut, to the winter of
1407, when it froze from St. Martin’s Day to Candlemas,
and with such fury that the parliamentary registrar’s pen
froze, in the Great Chamber, between every three words,
which was a vast impediment to the registration of
justice ! ”

Farther on, two neighbor women gossiped at their
windows; the candles in their hands flickered faintly
through the fog.

''Did your husbaud tell you of the accident, Made-
moiselle La Boudrac|ue?”

"No. Wliat was it, Mademoiselle Turquant?”

"The horse of M. Gilles Godin, the notary from the
Chatelet, took fright at the Flemish and their procession,
and knocked down Master Philippot Avrillot, lay brother
of the Celestines.”

" Is that really so

110

NOTEE-DAME.

Indeed it is.’'

“ And such a plebeian animal ! It’s a little too much.
If it had only been a cavalry horse, it would not be so
bad!”

And the windows were closed. But Griiigoire had
already lost the thread of his ideas.

Luckily he soon recovered and readily resumed it,
thanks to the gypsy girl, thanks to Djali, who still went
before liim, — two slender, delicate, charming creatures,
whose tiny feet, pretty forms, and graceful manners he
admired, almost confounding them in his contemplation ;
thinking them both young girls from their intelligence
and close friendship ; considering them both goats from
the lightness, agility, and grace of tlieir step.

But the streets grew darker and more deserted every
instant. The curfew had long since sounded, and it was
only at rare intervals that a passenger was seen upon the
pavement or a light in any window. Gringoire had in-
volved himself, by following in the footsteps of the gypsy,
in that inextricable labyrinth of lanes, cross-streets, and
blind alleys, wdiich encircles the ancient sepulchre of the
Holy Innocents, and wliich is much like a skein of
thread tangled by a playful kitten.

“ Here are streets with hut little logic !” said Gringoire,
lost in the myriad windings which led back incessantly
to their original starting-point, hut amid whicli the damsel
pursued a path with which she seemed very familiar,
never hesitating, and walking more and more sw^iftly. As
for him, he would not have had the least idea where he
was, if he had not caught a glimpse, at the corner of a

^FOLLOWING' a; ^ the street.. Ill

street, of the octagoiial mass of the pillory of the markets,
whose pierced top stood out in sharp dark outlines against
a window still lighted in the Rue Verdelet.

A lew moments before, he had attracted the young girl’s
attention ; she had several times turned her head anx-
iously towards him; once she had even stopped short, and
taken advantage of a ray of light which escaped ironi a
half-open bake-shop, to study him earnestly from head to
foot; then, having cast that glance, Gringoire saw her
make the little grimace which he had already noted, and
then she passed on.

It gave Gringoire food for thought. There was cer-
tainly a leaven of scorn and mockery in that dainty
grimace. He therefore began to hang his head, to count
the paving-stones, and to follow the young girl at a some-
what greater distance, when at the turn of a street which
hid her from his sight, he heard her utter a piercing
scream.

He hastened on.

The street was full of dark shadows. Still, a bit of tow
soaked in oil, which burned in an iron cage at the foot of
the image of the Holy Virgin at the street corner enabled
Gringoire to see the gypsy girl struggling in the arms of
two men wlm were trying to stifle her cries. The poor
little goat, in great alarm, lowered its horns and bleated
piteously.

'‘This way, gentlemen of the watch!” shouted Grm-
goire ; and he rushed boldly forward. One of the men who
held the girl turned towards him. It was the formidable
figure of Quasimodo.

ipproached him, flung him four paces away
uent with a single back stroke, and ] dunged

FOLLOWING A WOMAN IN THE 8TIIEET.

113

rapidly into the darkness, bearing the girl, thrown over
one arm like a silken scarf. His companion followed him,
and the poor goat ran behind, with its plaintive bleat.

''Murder! murder!” sinieked the unfortunate gypsy.

"Halt, wretches, and let that wench go !” al)ruptly ex-
claimed, in a voice of thunder, a horseman who appeared
suddenly from the next cross-street.

It was a captain of the king’s archers, armed from head
to foot, and broadsword in hand.

He tore the gypsy girl from the arms of the astounded
Quasimodo, laid lier across his saddle, and just as the re-
doubtable humpback, recovering from his surprise, rushed
upon him to get back his prey, some fifteen or sixteen
archers, who were close behind their captain, appeared,
two-edged swords in hand. They were a squadron of tine
royal troops going on duty as extra watchmen, by order of
Master Eobert d’Estouteville, provost’s warden of Paris.

Quasimodo was surrounded, seized, garroted. He roared,
he foamed at the mouth, he bit; and had it been daylight,
no doubt his face alone, made yet more hideous by rage,
would have routed the whole squadron. But by night,
he was stripped of his most tremendous weapon, — his
ugliness.

His companion had disappeared during the struggle.

The gypsy girl sat gracefully erect upon the officer’s
saddle, placing both hands upon the young man’s shoulders,
and gazing fixedly at him for some seconds, as if charmed
by his beauty and the timely help which he had just ren-
dered her. Then breaking the silence, she said, her sweet
voice sounding even sweeter than usual, —

114 ' : ' : ' ' ' JSrOTKE-DAMK.

WliM is your^^n^^

'' Captain' PliaBbiis de Ch^teaupers, .at your service,' my
pretty maid 1 i’ replied the officer, drawing himself up.

‘' Thank you,” said she.

And while Captain Phoebus twirled his mustache, cut
in Burgundian fashion, she slipped from the horse like an
arrow fallmg to the earth, and fled.

A flash of lightning could not have vanished more
swiftly.

“ By the Pope’s head ! ” said the captain, ordering Qua-
simodo’s bonds to be tightened, “ I had rather have kept
the wench.”

"What would you have, captain .? ” said one of his men ;

V.

THE BEST OF THE CONVENIENCES.

G EIFGOIPtE, still dizzy from his fall, lay stretched
on the pavement before the figure of the Blessed
Virgin at the coi’iier of the street. Little by little he re-
gained his senses ; at first he was for some moments float-
ing in a sort of half-drowsy reverie which was far from
unpleasant, in which the airy figures of tlie gypsy and her
goat were blended with the weight of Quasimodo's fist.
This state of things did not last long. A somewhat sharp
sensation of cold on that part of his body in contact with
the pavement roused him completely, and brought his
mind back to realities once more.

“ Why do I feel so cold ? ” said he abruptly. He then
discovered that he was lying in the middle of the gutter.

Deuce take the humpbacked Cyclop!" he muttered;
and he tried to rise. But he was too dizzy and too much

116

NOTRE^BAME.

bruised; he was IoitM to he was. How-

ever, his band was free; he stopped his nose and resigned
himself to his fate.

^‘Tiie mud of Paris ” thought he (for he felt very sure
that the gutter must be lus lodging for the night,

“ Aiul what slioiild we do in a lodguig if we do not think ? ”)

'Hhe mud of Paris is particularly foul ; it must contain a
vast amount of volatile and nitrous salts. Moreover, such
is the opinion of Master Nicolas Piarnel and of the
Hennetics — ”

The word ‘‘ Hennetics ” suddenly reminded him of the
archdeacon, Claude Prollo. He recalled the violent scene
tvhich he had just witnessed, — how the g}iasy struggled
with two men, liow Quasimodo had a companion; and the
morose and haughty face of the archdeacon passed con-
fusedly through his niiiid. ‘'That would be strange!”
he thought. And he began to erect, upon these data and
this basis, ilie fantastic edifice of hypothesis, that card-
house of philosophers ; then suddenly returning once more
to reality, “ But there ! I am freezing ! ” he exclaimed.

The situation was in fact becoming more and more un-
bearable. Every drop of water in the gutter took a })ar“
tide of heat from Gringoire's loins, and the temperature
of his body and the temperature of the gutter began to
balance each other in a very disagreeable Ihshion.

An annoyance of quite another kind all at once beset
him.

A band of children, those little barefoot savages who
have haunted the streets of Paris in all ages under the

117

generic name of ‘* gamins/’ and who, when we too were
children/ threw stones at us every day as we hastened
liome from school because oiir trousers were destitute of
holes, — a swarm of these young scamps ran towards the
cross-roads where Gringoire lay, with shouts and laugh-
ter wliicli seemed to show but little regard for their neigh-
bor s sleep. Tiiey dragged after them a shapeless sack,
and the mere clatter of their wooden shoes would have
been enough to rouse the dead. Gringoire, who was not
quite lifeless yet, rose to a sitting position.

'' Hollo, Hennequin Dandfeche ! Hollo there, Jehan Pince-
bourde 1 ” they bawled at the top of their voices; "old
Eustaclie Moiibon, the junk-man at the corneiV has just
died ; we ’ve got his mattress ; we 're going to build a bon-
fire. This is the Flemings' day 1”

And io, they fiung the mattress directly upon Gringoire,
near whom they stood witlioiit seeing liim. At the same
time one of them snatched up a wisp* of straw which fie
lighted at the good Virgin's lamp.

Christ's body 1 " groaned Gringoire, '' am I going to be
too liot next ? "

It was a critical moment. He would soon be caught
betwixt fire and water. He made a supernatural effort, —
sucii an effort as a coiner of false money might make
when about to be boiled alive and struggling to escape.
He rose to his feet, hurled the mattress back upon the
little rascals, and fled.

Holy Virgil) 1 " screamed the boys ; '' the junk-dealer
has returned I ”

And they too took to their heels.

IIS

HOTKE-DAME.

The mattress was left mistress of the battlefield. Belle-
foret, Father Le Juge, and Corrozet aliinn tluit it was
picked up next day with great pomp by the clergy oi‘ t!ie
quarter, and placed in the treasury of the Church of the
Holy Opportunity, where the sacristan earned a handsome
income until 1789 by his tales of the wonderiul miracle
performed by the statue of the Virgin at the comer of
the Rue Mauconseil, which had by its mere presence,
on the memorable night of Jan. 6, 1482, exorcised the
spirit of the defunct Eustache Mouboii, who, to outwit
the Devil, had, in dying, maliciously hidden liis soul in
his mattress.

THE BROKEN JUG.

A fter running for some time as fast as liis legs
would carry him, without knowing whither, plung-
ing headlong around many a street corner, striding over
many a gutter, traversing many a lane and blind alley,
seeking to find escape and passage tlirougli all the wind-
ings of the old streets about the markets, exploring in his
panic fear what the elegant Latin of the charters calls
tota via, clujimiiim et viaria, our poet came to a sudden
stop, partly from lack of breath, and partly because he
was collared as it were by a dilemma which had just

120

NOTRE~l)AMK

dawued upon bis mind. ''It strikes me, Pierrii Grin-
goire,’' said he to himself, laying his finger to- his fore-
head, " that you are running as if you had lost your wits.
Those little scamps were quite as much afraid of you as
you were of them. It strikes me, I tell you, that you
heard the clatter of their wooden shoes as they fled to the
south, while you took refuge to the north, blow, one of
two things : either tliey ran away, and then the mattress,
which they must have forgotten in their fright, is just the
hospitable bed which you have been running after since
morning, and which Our Lady miraculously semis you to
reward you for writing a morality in her honor, accom-
panied by triumphal processions and mummeries ; or else
the boys did not run away, and in that case they have set
fire to the mattress ; and there you liave just exactly the
good fire that you need to cheer, warm, and dry you. In
either case, wdiether as a good fire or a good bed, the
mattress is a gift from Heaven. The Blessed Virgin Mary,
at the corner of tlie Paie Mauconseil, may liave killed
Eustache Moubon for this very purjiose; and it is she(?r
madness in you to betake yourself to sucli frantic flight,
like a Picard running before a Frenchman, leaving behind
what you are seeking before you ; and you are a fool I ''
Then he retraced his steps, and fumbling and ferreting
his way, snuffing the breeze, and his ear on the alert, he
strove to find the blessed mattress once more, but in vain.
He saw nothing but intersecting bouses, blind alleys^ and
crossings, in the midst of vrhich he doubted and hcvsitatod
continnally, more hindered and more closely entangled in
this confusion of dark lanes than he would have been in

TliK BROKEN JtJG. 121

the very lahyrinth of the Hotel des Tournelles. At last
he lost patience, and exelauned solemnly : '' Corse all
these crossings 1 The Devil himself must have made them
in the likeness of his pitchfork ”

This outburst comforted him somewhat, and a sort of
reddish reflection which he observed at this instant at the
end of a long, narrow lane, quite restored his wonted
spirits. “Heaven be praised 1” said he ; “yonder it is!
There Is my mattress burning briskly.” ilnd comparing
liirnself to the boatman foundering by night, lie added
piously: Salve, mlve, mavis fiUilar'

Did he address this fragment of a litany to tlie Holy
Virgin, or to the mattress ? That we are wholly unable to
say.

He Jiad taken but a few steps down the long lane,
which was steep, unpaved, and more and more muddy and
sloping, when lie remarked a very strange fact. It was
not empty : here and there, along its length, crawled cer-
tain vague and shapeless masses, all proceeding towards
the light which flickered at the end of the street, like those
clumsy insects which creep at night from one blade of
grass to another towards a shepherd's fire.

Nothing makes a man bolder than the sense of an empty
pocket. Gringoire continued to advance, and had soon
overtaken tliat larva which dragged itself most lazily
along behind the others. As he approached, he saw
1 ;; that it was nothing but a miserable cripple without any

hygs, strapped into a bowl, and hopping along as best lie
might on his hands, like a wounded spider which has
but two legs left. Just as he passed this kind of human

122 • NOTRE-DAME.

insect, it uttered a piteous appeal to him : '' La hiiona
rnancia, signor! la buooia mam^cia I

‘'Devil fly away with you/’ said Gringoire, '' and with
me too, if I know what you’re talking about!”

And he passed on.

He came up with another of these perambulating masses,
and examined it. It was another cripple, both lame and
one-armed, and so lame and so armless that the com-
plicated system of crutches and wooden limbs which sup-
ported him made him look like a mason’s scaffolding
walking off by itself. Gringoire, who loved stately and
classic similes, comjoared the fellow, in fancy, to Vulcan’s
living tripod.

The living tripod greeted him as he passed, by holding
his hat at the level of Gringoire’s chin, as if it had been a
barber’s basin, and shouting in his ears : Senor caballero,
para cornprar nn pedaso de pan ! ”

*'It seems,” said Gringoire, 'Hhat he talks too; but
it ’s an ugly language, and he is better off than I am if
he understands it.”

Then, clapping his hand to his head with a sudden
change of idea : By the way, what the devil did they
mean this morning by their ' Esmeralda ’ ? ”

He tried to quicken his pace; but for the third time
something blocked the way. This something, or ratlier
this some one, was a blind man, a little blind man, with
a bearded Jewish face, who, feeling about him with a
stick, and towed by a big dog, snuffled out to him with
a Hungarian 'accent: Facitote caritatemr^

'' That ’s right 1 ” said Pierre Gringoire ; '' here ’s one at

THE BROKEN JUG.

123

last who speaks a Christian tongue. I iiiust have a very
charitable air to make all these creatures come to me
for alms when my purse is so lean. My friend [and
he turned to the blind man], I sold my last shirt last
week ; that is to say, since you understand the language of
Cicero, ' Vcmlidi hebdomade nnper transita meain 'ultimam
ehemismn ! '

So saying, he turned his back on the blind man and
went his way. But the blind man began to mend his
steps at the same time with him ; and lo and behold ! the
cripple and the man bound into the bowl hurried along
after them with a great clatter of bowl and crutches over
the pavement. Then ail three, tumbling over each other
in their haste at the heels of poor Gringoire, began to sing
their several songs: —

CciQ'itatem r' sang the blind man.

'' La buona maoicia ! tlm man in the bowl.

And the lame man took up the phrase with, " Un
ppdaso de pan ! ”

Gringoire stopped his ears, exclaiming : Oh, tower of
Babel!”

He began to run. The blind man ran. The lame man
ran. The man in the bowl ran.

And then, the farther he went down the street, the more
thickly did cripples, blind men, and legless men swarm
around him, with armless men, one-eyed men, and lepers
with their sores, some coming out of houses, some from
adjacent streets, some from cellar-holes, hovvding, yelling,
bellowing, all hobbling and limping, rushing towards the
light, and wallowing in the mire like slugs after a shower.

Gringoire, still followed by his three persecutors, and
not ku'iowing what would happen next, walked tiniidly
Ihrougii the rest, going around the lame, striding over the
cripples, his feet entangled in this autdiill of defoi-mity
and disease> that English captain caught fast by an
ariuy of land-crabs.

He thought of retracing his steps; but it was too late.
The entire legion had closed up behind him, and his three
beggars pressed liirn close. He therefore went on, driven
alike by this irresistible stream, by fear, and by a dizzy
feeling which made all tins seem a horrible dream.

At last he reached the end of the street. It opened
into a vast square, where a myriad scattered lights
twinkled through the dim fog of night. Gringoire Inir-
ried forward, lioping by the swiftness of his legs to escape
the three infirm spectres who had fastened tliemselves
upon him.

Otide vm, homhreV cried tlie lame man, tlirowing
away his crutches, and running after him with the best
pair of legs that ever measured a geometric pace upon the
pavements of Paris.

Then the man in the bowl, erect upon his feet, clapped
his heavy iron-bound bond upon Griugoire's head, ami the
blind man glared at him with fiaming eyes.

'' Where am 1 V asked the terrilied poet.

‘Mn the Court of Miracles,"' replied a fourth spectre,
who had just accosted them.

“By my souir’ replied Gringoire;''! do indeed behold
blind men seeing and lame men running ; but where is the
Saviour ?

THE BROKEN JUG.

125

Tiiey answered with an evil burst of laughter.

The poor poet glanced around him. He was indeed in
that fearful Court of Miracles, which no honest man had
ever entered at such an hour ; the magic circle within
whose lines the officers of the Chatelet, and the provost’s
men who ventured to penetrate it, disappeared in mor-
sels ; a city of thieves, a hideous wart upon the face of
Paris ; the sewer whence escaped each morning, returning
to stagnate at night, that rivulet of vice, mendicity, and
vagrancy, perpetually overilowiiig the streets of every
great capital ; a monstrous hive, receiving nightly all the
drones of the social order with their booty : the lying hos-
pital, where the gypsy, the unfrocked monk, the ruined
scholar, the scapegrace of every nation, Spanish, Italian,
and German, and of every creed, Jew, Christian, Mahome-
tan, and idolater, covered with painted sores, beggars by
day, were transformed into robbers by night, — in short,
a huge cloak-room, used at this period for the dressing
and undressing of all the actors in the everlasting comedy
enacted in the streets of Paris by theft, prostitution,
and murder.

It was a vast square, irregular and ill-paved, like every
other square in Paris at that time. Fires, around which
swarmed strange groups, gleamed here and there. People
came and went, and shouted and screamed. Tliere was a
sound of shrill laughter, of the wailing of children, and
the voices of women. The hands, the heads of this mul-
titude, black against the luminous background, made a
thousand uncouth gestures. At times, a dog wliich looked
like a man, or a man who looked like a dog, passed over

126

NOTRE-DAiMK.

the space of ground lit up by the flatnes, blended
huge and shapeless shadows. The limits of race and
species seemed to fade away in this city as in some pan-
demonium. Men, women, beasts, age, sex, health, disease,
all seemed to be in common among these people; all was
blended, mingled, confounded, superimposed ; each par-
took of all.

The feeble flickering light of the fires enabled Gringoire
to distinguish, in spite of his alarm, all around the vast
square a hideous framing of ancient houses whose worm-
eaten, worn, misshapen fronts, each pierced by one or two
lighted garret windows, looked to him in the darkness like
the huge heads of old women ranged in a circle, nionstrous
and malign, watching and winking at the infernal revels.

It was like a new world, unknown, unheard of, deformed,
creeping, swarming, fantastic,

Gringoire, more and more affrighted, caught by tile
three beggars as if by three pairs of pincers, confused
by the mass of other foees which snarled and grimaced
about him, — the wretched Gringoire tried to recover suffi-
cient presence of mind to recall whetlier it was Saturday
or not. But his efforts were in vain ; the thread of liis
memory and his thougkts was broken ; and doubting
everything, hesitating between what he saw and what he
felt, he asked himself the unanswerable questions: ''If
I be I, are these things really so ? If these things be
so, am I really IV'

At this instant a. distinct cry rose from the buzzing mob
which surrounded him : “Take him to the king I take liim
to the king!”

m'

THE BROKEN JUG.

127

'‘Holy Virgin!'' muttered Gringoire, “the king of this
region should be a goat.”

“ To the king 1 to the king ! ” repeated every voice.

He was dragged away. Each one vied with the other
in fastening his claws upon him. But the three beggars
never loosed their hold, and tore him from the others,
howling, “ He is ours ! ”

The poet’s feeble doublet breathed its last in the
struggle.

As they crossed the horrid square, his vertigo vanished.
After walking a few steps, a sense of reality returned. He
began to grow accustomed to the atmosphere of the place.
At first, from his poetic head, or perhaps, quite simply
and quite prosaically, from his empty stomach, there liad
arisen certain fumes, a vapor as it were, which, spreading
itself between him and other objects, prevented him from
seeing anything save through a confused nightmare mist,
through those dream-like shadows which render every out-
line vague, distort every shape, combine all objects into exag-
gerated groups, and enlarge things into chimeras and men
into ghosts. By degrees this delusion gave way to a less
wild and less deceitful vision. Eeality dawned upon him,
blinded him, ran against him, and bit by bit destroyed tlie
frightful poetry with which he had at first fancied himself
surrounded. He could not fail to see that he was walk-
ing. not in the Styx, but in the mire ; that he was pushed
and elbowed; not by detnons but by thieves ; that it was
not his soul, but merely hixS life which Avas in danger (since
he lacked that precious conciliator which pleads so power-
fully with the bandit for the, honest man, — a purse).

128 NOTRE-DAME. ^

Filially, examining the revels more closely and with greater
calmness, lie descended from the WitchevS’ Sabbath to the
pot-house.

The Court of Miracles was indeed only a pot-house,
but a pot-house of thieves, as red witli blood as with
wine.

The spectacle presented to his eyes ^vhen his tattered
escort at last landed him at his journey’s end was scarcely
fitted to bring him back to poetry, even were it the poetry
of hell. It was more than ever the prosaic and brutal
reality of the tavern. If we were not living in tlie
fifteenth century, we shoiild say that Gringoire had fallen
from Michael Angelo to Callot.

Around a large fire burning upon a great round flag-
stone, and lapping with its flames the rusty legs of a trivet
empty for the moment, stood a number of worm-eaten
tables here and there, in dire confusion, no lackey of any
geometrical pretensions having deigned to adjust their
parallelism, or at least to see that they did not cross each
other at angles too uiiusual. Upon these tables glittered
various pots and jugs dripping with wine and beer, and
around these jugs were- seated numerous Bacchanalian
faces, purple with fire and wine. One big-bellied man
with a jolly face was administering noisy kisses to a
brawny, thickset woman. A rubhie, or old vagrant, whis-
tled as he loosed the bandages from his mock wound,
and rubbed his sound, healthy knee, whicli had been
swathed all day in ample ligatures. Beyond him was a
mumper, preparing Ins visitation from God,” his sore leg,
with suet and ox-blood. Two tables farther on, a sham

THE BROKEN JUG.

129

pilgrim, in complete pilgrim dress, was spelling out the
lament of Sainte-Eeine, not forgetting the snuffle and the
twang. Ill another place a young scamp who imposed on
the charitable by pretending to have been bitten by a mad
dog, was taking a lesson of an old dimirny chucker in the
art of frothing at the mouth by chewing a bit of soap.
By their side a dropsical man was reducing his size, mak-
ing four or five doxies hold their noses as they sat at the
same table, quarrelling over a child which they had stolen
during the evening, — all circumstances which, two cen-
turies later, '‘seemed so ridiculous to the court,’' as Sauval
says, " that tliey served as diversion to the king, and as
the opening to a royal ballet entitle4 ' ISTight,' divided into
four parts, and danced at the Petit Bourbon Theatre.”
" iSTever,'' adds an eye-witness in 1653, “ have the sudden
changes of the Court of Miracles been more happily hit
off. Beuserade prepared us for them by some very fine
verses.”

Coarse laughter was heard on every hand, with vul-
gar songs. Every man expressed himself in his own
way, carping and swearing, without heeding his neighbor.
Some hobnobbed, and quarrels arose from the clash of
tiieir mugs, and the breaking of their mugs was the cause
of many torn rags.

A big dog squatted on his tail, gazing into the fire.
Some children took their part in the orgies. The stolen
child cried and screamed; while another, a stout boy of
four, sat on a high bench, with his legs dangling, his chin
just coming above the table, and not speaking a word.
A third was gravely smearing the table with melted tallow

130 NOTRE-IUME.

as it ran froiii the candle. Another, a little fellow, crouched
in tlte mud, almost lost in a kettle which he was scraping
W'ith a potsherd, making a noise which would have dis-
tracted Stradivarius.

A cask stood near the fire, and a beggar sat on the cask.
This was the king upon his throne.

The three who held Gringoire led him up to this cask,
and all the revellers were, hushed for a moment, except the
caldron inhabited by the child.

Gringoire dared not breathe or raise his eyes.

Ilofnbre, quita tn sonibrero ! said one of the three
scoundrels who held him ; and before he had made up
his mind what this meant, another snatched his hat, — a
shabby headpiece, to be sure, but still useful on sunny or
on rainy days. Gringoire sighed.

But the king, from the height of his barrel, addressed,
him, —

“ Who is this varlet ? ”

Gringoire started. The voice, although threatening in
tone, reminded him of another voice which had that same
morning dealt the first blow to liis mystery by winning
out from the audience, ‘'Charity, kind souls He lifted
his head. It was indeed Clopiii Trouillefoii.

CTopin Trouillefou, decked with his royal insignia, had
not a tatter more or less than usual. The wound on
his arm had vanished. In his hand he held one of
those whips with whit-leather thongs then used by ser-
geants of the wand to keep back the crowd, and called
“ boullayes.” Upon his head he wore a circular coif
closed at the top; hut it was hard to say wdietlier it

THE BROKEN JUG.

131

was a child’s pad or a king’s crown, so similar are the
two things.

Stin, Griiigoire, without knowing why, felt his hopes
revive when he recognizied this accursed beggar of the
Great Hall in the king of the Court of Miracles.

“Master,” stuttered he, “My Lord — Sire — How shall
I address you ? ” he said at last, reaching the culminating ^
point of his crescendo, and not knowing how to rise higher
or to redescend.

“ My Lord, your Majesty, or comrade. Call me what
you will ; but make haste. What have you to say in your
defence ? ”

“‘111 your defence’” thought Griugoire ; “I don’t like
the sound of that.” He resumed stammeringly, “ I am he
who this inoriiing — ”

“ By the Devil’s claws ! ” interrupted Clopin, “ your name,
varlet, and nothing more. Hark ye. You stand before
three mighty sovereigns : me, Glopiu Trouillefou, King of
Tunis, ^ successor to the Grand Goere, the king of rogues,
lord paramount of the kingdom of Cant; Mathias Hungadi
Spicali, Duke of Egypt ^ and Bohemia, that yellow old boy
you see yonder with a clout about his head ; Guillaume
Kousseau, Emperor of Galilee,® that fat fellow who pays
no heed to us, but caresses tliat wanton. We are your
judges. You have entered the kingdom of Cant, the land
of thieves, without being a member of the confraternity ;
you have violated the privileges of our city. You must be
punislied, unless you be either prig, mumper, or cadger;

^ Slang term for king of mendicants. King of the gypsies.

^ Chief of the gamblers, , ,

132

NOTEE-DAME.

that k, in the vulgar tongue of honest folks, cither thiej‘,
beggar, or tramp. Are you any tiling of the sort ? Justify
yourselt ; state your character.’'

“ Alas,” said Gringoire, “ 1 have not that honor. I am
the author — ”

“Enough,” cried Trouillefou, not allowing him to finish
his sentence. Ton must be hanged. Quite a simple mat-
ter, my houest citizens ! As you treat our people when they
enter your domain, so we treat yours when they intrude
among us. The law which you mete out to vagabonds, the
vagabonds mete out to you. It is your own fault if it be
evil. It is quite necessary that we should occasionally see
an honest man grin through a hempen collar ; it makes
the thing honorable. Come, friend, divide your rags cheer-
fully among these young ladies. I will have you hanged
to amuse the vagabonds, and you shall give them your
pui’se to pay for a drink. If you have any mummeiies
to perform, over yonder in that mortar there ’s a capital
God the Father, in stone, which'we stole from the Church
of Saint-Pierre- aux-Bueufs. You have four minutes to
fling your soul at his head.”

This was a terrible speech,

“ Well said, upon my soul 1 Clopiu Trouillefou ])reaches
as well as any pope 1 ” exclaimed the Emperor of Galilee,
smashing his jug to prop up his table.

“ .Yoble emperors and kings,” said Gringoire with great
coolness (for his courage had mysteriously returned, and he
spoke firmly), “ you do not consider what you ’re doing. My
name is Pierre Gringoire ; I am the poet whose play was
performed this morning in the Great Hall of the Palace.”

THE BKOKEN JUG.

133

Oh, is it you, sirrah ? ” said Clopin. '' I Avas there,
God's wounds ! Well, comrade, because you bored us tliis
morning, is that any reason why we should not hang you
to-night ? "

I shall have hard work to get off/' thought Griiigoire.
].>ut yet he made one more effort. '' I don't see," said he,
“ why poets should not be classed with vagabonds. JEsop
was a vagrant p Homer was a beggar; Mercury was a
thief — ”

Clopin interrupted him : I believe you mean to cozen
us with your lingo. Good God ! be hanged, and don’t make
such a row about it ! "

Excuse me, my lord King of Tunis," replied Gringoire,
disputing every inch of the ground. '' Is it worth while —
An instant — Hear me — You will not condemn me
unheard — ”

His melancholy voice was indeed lost in the uproar
around him. The little boy scraped his kettle more vigor-
ously than ever; and, to cap the climax, an old^woman
had just placed a frying-pan full of fat upon tlie trivet,
and it crackled over the flames with a noise like the shouts
of an army of children in chase of some masquerader.

However, Clopin Trouillefou seemed to be conferring for
a moment with the Duke of Egypt and the Emperor of
Galilee, the latter being entirely drunk. Then he cried
out sharply, “Silence, I say ! ” and a>s the kettle and the
frying-pan paid no heed, but kept up their duet, he leaped
from his cask, dealt a kick to the kettle, which rolled
ten paces or more with the child, another kick to the
frying-pan, which upset all the fat into the fire, and then

'134

gravely reascendecl his throne, utterly regardless of the
little one’s stifled sobs and the grumbling of the old woman
whose supper had vanished in brilliant flames.

Trouillefou made a sign, ^nd the duke, the emperor, the
arch thieves, and the gonnofs ^ ranged themselves around
him ill the form of a horseshoe, Gringoire, still roughly
grasped by the shoulders, occupying the centre. It was
a semicircle of rags, of tatters, of tinsel, of pitchforks, of
axes, of staggering legs, of hare brawny arms, of sordid,
dull, stupid faces. In the middle of this Eouiid Table
of beggary Clopin Trouillefou reigned pre-eminent, as the
doge of this senate, the king of this assembly of peers, the
pope of this conclave, — pre-eminent in the first place by
the height of his cask, then by a peculiarly haughty, sav-
age, and tremendous air, which made his eyes flasli, and
amended in his fierce profile the bestial type of the va-
grant. He seemed a wild boar among swine.

'' Hark ye,” he said to Gringoire, caressing his shapeless
chin with his horny hand ; “ I see no reason why you should
not be hanged. To be sure, you seem to dislike the idea,
and it ’s very plain that you worthy cits are not used to
it; you’ve got an exaggerated idea of the thing. After
all, we wish you no harm. There is one way of gettiiig
you out of the difficulty for the time being. Will you
join us ? ”

My reader may fancy the effect of thivS proposal upon
Gringoire, who saw his life escaping him, and liad already

1 The kingdom of the Grand Coere, or king of rogues, was divided
into as many districts as there were provinces in France, each superin-
tended by a gonnof,’' or expert, who trained the uninitiated.

THE BROKEN JUG.

135

begun to lose his hold upon it He clung to it once more
with vigor.

'' I will indeed, with all my heart,’' said lie.

Do you agree/’ resumed Clopin, “ to enroll yourself
among the gentry of the chive ? ” ^

“ Of the cliive, exactly/’ answered Gringoire.

Do you acknowledge yourself a member of the rogues’
brigade ? ” continued the King of Tunis.

“ Of the rogues’ brigade.”

A subject of the kingdom of Cant ? ”

‘‘ Of the kingdom of Cant”

“ A vagrant ? ”

“ A vagrant.”

At heart ? ”

“ At heart”

‘‘ I would call your attention to the fact,” added the
king, “ that you will be hanged none the les.s.”

‘‘ The devil ! ” said the poet

“ Only,” continued Clopin, quite unmoved, ‘‘ you will be
hanged later, with more ceremony, at the cost of the good
city of Paris, on a fine stone gallows, and by honest men.
That is some consolation.”

As you say,” responded Gringoire.

“There are other advantages. As a member of the
rogues’ brigade you will have to pay no taxes for pave-
ments, for the poor, or for lighting the streets, to all of
which the citizens of Paris are subject.”

“ So be it,” said the poet ; “ I consent. I am a vagrant,
a Canter, a member of the rogues’ brigade, a man of the

i Dagger, — old English cunt.

136 NOTKE-DAME.

chive, — what you will; and I was all this long eUgo, Sir
King of Tunis, for I am a philosopher ; et omnia in i)hi-
losopliia, oninCrS in pMlosopho continentuT, as you hiiow.”

The King of Timis Ifowned.

''What do you take me for, mate ? What Hungarian
Jew’s gi};)berish are you giving us ? I don’t know Hebrew.
I’m no Jew, if I am a thieh I don’t even steal now : I
am above that ; I kill. Cut-throat, yes ; cutpurse, no.”

Gringoire tried to slip in some excuse between these,
brief phrases which anger made yet more abrupt.

" I beg your pardon, my lord. It is not Hebrew, it is
Latin.”

" I tell you,” replied Clopin, furiously, “ that I am no
Jew, and that I will have you hanged, — by tlie synagogue,
I will I — together with that paltry J udean cadger beside
you, whom I mightily hope I may some day see nailed to
a..couuter, like the counterfeit coin that he is I ”

So saying, he pointed to the little Hungarian Jew with
the beard, who had accosted Gringoire with his " FacitoU
caritatmnl' and who, understanding no other language, was
amazed at the wrath which the King of Tunis vented
upon him.

At last my lord Clopin became calm.

“ So, vavlet,” said he to our poet, “you wisli to become
a vagrant ? ”

“ Undoubtedly,” replied the poet.

“ It is not enough merely to wish,” said the surly Clopin ;
“good-will never added an onion to the soup, and is good
for nothing but a passport to Paradise ; now, Paradise and
Cant are two distinct things. To be received into the

THE BROKEN JUG.

137

kiiigdoni of Cant, you must prove that you are good for
something; and to prove this jmu must fumble the snot.” ^
will fumble,” said Gringoire, ‘'as much as ever you

like.”

Clopin made a sign. A number of Canters stepped from
the circle and returned immediately, bringing a couple of
posts finished at the lower end with broad wooden feet,
which made them stand firmly upon the ground ; at the
upper end of the two posts they arranged a crossbeam, the
whole forming a very pretty portable gallows, wliicli Grin-
goire had the pleasure of seeing erected before him in the
twinkling of an eye. Notlung was wanting, not even the
rope, which swung gracefully from the crossbeam.

“ What are they going to do ? ” wondered Gringoire with
some alarm. A sound of bells which he heard at the same
moment put an end to his anxiety ; it was a manikin, or
puppet, that the vagrants hung by the nqck to the cord, —
a sort of scarecrow, dressed in red, and so loaded with little
bells and hollow brasses that thirty Castilian mules might
have been tricked out with them. These countless tinklers
jingled for some time with the swaying of the rope, then
the sound died away by degrees, and finally ceased when
tlie manikin had been restored to a state of complete im-
mobility by that law of the pendulum which has siij^er-
seded the clepsydra and the hour-glass.

Then Clopin, showing Gringoire a rickety old footstool,
placed under the manikin, said, —

“Climb up there!”

“The devil!” objected, Gringoire; “I shall break my
^ Search the manikin.

138

NOTRE-DAME.

neck. Your stool halts like one of Martiaks couplets;
one foot has six syllables and one foot has but five.”

Climb up ! ” repeated Clopin.

Gringoire mounted the stool, and succeeded, though not'
without considerable waving of head and arms, in recover-
ing his centre of gravity.

Kow,” resumed the King of Tunis, '' twist your right
foot round your left leg, and stand on tiptoe with your
left foot.”

My lord,” said Gringoire, “ are you absolutely deter-
mined to make me break a limb ? ”

Clopin tossed liis head.

“ Hark ye, mate ; you talk too much. I will tell you in
a couple of words what I expect you to do : you are to
stand on tiptoe, as I say ; in that fashion you can reacli
the manikin's pockets ; you are to search them ; you are
to take out a purse which you will find there; and if you
do all this without ringing a single bell, it is well : you
shall become a vagrant. We shall have nothing more to
do but to baste you with blows for a week.” ^

''Zounds ! I shall take good care,” said Gringoire. “And
if I ring the bells ? ”

“ Then you shall be hanged. Do you understand ? ”

“ I don't understand at all,” answered Gringoire.

“ Listen to me once more. You are to search the mani-
kin and steal his purse ; if but a single bell stir in the
act, you shall be hanged. Do you understand that ? ”
“Good,” said Gringoire, “I understand that. What
next ? ”

“If you manage to get, the purse without moving the

THE BKOKEN JUG.

139

bells, you are a vagrant, and you shall be basted with
blows for seven days in succession. You understand now,
I suppose ?’'

“No, rny lord; I no longer understand. Where is tlm
advantage ? I shall be hanged in the one case, beaten in
the other ?

“And as a vagrant,” added Clopin, “and as a vagrant;
does that count for nothing? It is for your own good
that we shall beat you, to harden you against blows.’'

“ Many thanks,” replied the poet.

“Come, make haste,” said the king, stamping on his
cask, which re-echoed like a vast drum.

“Fumble the snot, and be done with it! I warn you
once for all, that if I hear but one tinkle, you shall take
the manikin’s place.”

The company of Canters applauded Clopin’s words, and
ranged themselves in a ring around the gallows, with such
pitiless laughter that Gringoire saw that he amused them
too much not to have everything to fear from them. His
only hope lay in the slight chance of succeeding in the
terrible task imposed upon him ; he decided to risk it, but
not without first addressing a fervent prayer to the mani-
kin whom he was to plunder, and who seemed more easily
moved than the vagrants. The myriad little bells with
their tiny brazen tongues seemed to him like so many
vipers with gaping jaws, ready to hiss and sting.

“Ob,” he murmured, “is it possible that my life de-
pends upon the slightest quiver of the least of these bells ?
Oh,” he added with clasped hands, “do not ring, ye bells 1
Tinkle not, ye tinklers ,! Jingle not, ye jinglers !”

IsOTKE-^DAME.

He made one move attempt to melt Trouillefou.

And if a breeze spring up ? he asked.

“ You will be hanged,” answered the other, without
hesitathu>\

Seeing that neither respite, delay, nor subterfuge M'as
possible, he made a desperate effort; he twisted his right

foot round his left leg, stood tiptoe on his left foot, and
stretched out his arm, but just as he touched the mani-
kin, his body, now resting on one foot, tottered upon the
stool, which had but three; he strove mechanically to
cling to the figure, lost his balance, and fell lieavily to
the ground, deafened and stunned by the fatal sound of

THE BROKEK JUG,

141

the myriad bells of the manikin, wliicli, yielding to the
pressure of his liand, first revolvuitl upon its own axis, then
swung majestically to and fro betweeii the posts.

'*A curse upon it!” he cried as he fell; and he lay as if
dead, face downwards.

Still he heard the fearful peal above his head, and the
devilish laugli of tlie vagrants, and the voice of Trouiilefou,
as it said, ''Lift up the knave, and hang him with a
will”

Pie rose. The manikin had already been taken <lown
to make room for him.

The Canters made him mount the stool. Clopin stepped
up to him, passed the rope round his nock, and clapping
him on the shmdder, exclaimed, —

“.Farewell, mate. You can’t escape now, though you
have the digestion of the Pope himself.”

The word “ mercy ” died on (J-ringolre’s lips. Pie gazed
around him, hut without liope : every man "was laughing.

“Bellevigne de I’liltoile,” said the King of Tunis to a huge
vagrant wlio started from the ranks, “climb upoii the cross-
beam,”

Bellevigne de Plttoile nimbly climbed the crossbeam,
and in an instant Gringoire, raising Ids eyes, with terror
beheld him squatting upon it, above his head.

“ Now,” continued Clopin Trouiilefou, " when I elap my
hands, do you, Aiidry le Rouge, knock away the footstool
from under him ; you, Francois Chante-Prune, liang on tf>
the knave's feet; and you, PMlevigne, jump down upon
Ids shoulders; and all three at once, do you hear?”

Gringoire shuddered.

142 :

NOTRE~DAME.

'' Are you ready ? ” said Clopiii Trouillefou to the three
Canters prepared to fall upon Gringoire. Tlie poor sufferer
endured a moment of horrible suspense, while Clopin
calmly pushed into the tire with his foot a few vine-
l)ranches wliich the flame had not yet kindled. “ Are
you ready ? '' he repeated ; and he opened his hands to
clap, A second more, and all would have been over.

But he paused, as if struck by a sudden thoug*ht.

'' One moment,’' said he ; “ I forgot 1 It is our custom
never to hang a man without asking if there be any
woman who 'll have him. Comrade, it 's your last chance.
You must marry a tramp or the rope."

Tiiis gypsy law, strange as it may seem to tlie reader,
is still written out in full in the ancient English code.
(See Burington’s Observations.”)

Gringoire breathed again. This was the second time
that he had been restored to life within the half-hour ; so
he dared not feel too confident.

'' Hollo I " cried Clopin, remounting his cask ; hollo
there, women, females 1 is there among you, from tlie
old witch to her cat, a wench who 'll take this scurvy
knave ? Hollo, Colette la Charonne 1 Iillisabeth Trouvain 1
Simone Jodouyne 1 Marie Piddebou ! Thonne la Longue 1
P)drarde Fanouel I Michelle Genaille ! Claude Ronge-
Oreille 1 Mathuiune Girorou I Hollo ! Isabeau la Tliierrye 1
Come and look ! a man for nothing ! who 'll take him ? ”

Gringoire, in his wretched plight, was doubtless far from
tempting. The vagabond women seemed but little rnovcHl
by the offer. The luckless fellow heard them answer :

“ No ! no 1 hang him ; that will make sport for us all”

THE BROKEN JUG.

Three, liowever, stepped from the crowd to look him
over. The first was a stout, square-faced girl. She ex-

nace for roasting

chestnuts. The girl made a wry face. old clout!”

she grumbled, and, addressing Gringoire, ''Let’s look at
your cloak ? ”

" I have lost it,” said Gringoire.

144

KOTHK-DAxMK.

'• Your hat ?

Some one took it from me/’

“ Your shoes ?

''The vsoles are almost worn through.”

" Your purse ? ”

" Alas ! ” faltered Gimigoire, " I have not a penny.”

“Be hanged to you then, and be thankful!” replied tlie
tramp, turning her back on liirn.

The second, ohl, weather-beaten, wrinkled, and ugly>
hideous enough to be conspicuous even in the Court of
Miracles, walked round and round Gringoire. He almost
trembled lest she should accept lum. But she muttered,
“ He ’s too thin,” and took her leave.

The third was a young girl, quite rosy and not veiy
ugly. “Save me!” whispered the poor devil.

She looked at him a moment with a compassionate air,
tlien looked down, began to plait up her skirt, and seemed
uncertain. He watched her every motion ; this was his
last ray of hope. “iSro,”said the young. woman at last;
“no! Guillaume Longuejoue would lick me;” and she
went back to the crowd.

“Comrade,” said Clopin Trouillefou, “you ’re down on
your luck.”

Then, standing ’^rect upon liis cask, he cried; “Will no
one take this lot ? ” mimicking the tpue of an auctioneeiv
to the great entertainment of all ; “ will no om^ hike it ?
Going, going, going 1 ” and turning to the gallows with a
nod, “ Gone ! ”

Bellevigne de Tiltoile, Andry le Rouge, and Francois
Chante-lhune approached Gringoire.

THE BROKEN JUO.

145

At tins instant a shout rose from the thieves : '' Esme-
]*alJa ! Esmeralda 1 ”

Gringoire^ trembled, and turned in the direction of the
cry. The crowd opened and made way for a pure and
radiant figure.

It was the gypsy girl.

Esmeralda ! ” said Gringoire, astounded, amidst his
contending emotions, at the suddenness with which that
magic word connected all the various recollections of his
clay.

This rare creature seemed to exercise sovereign sway
through her beauty and her charm even in the Court of
Miracles. Thieves, beggars, and harlots stood meekly
aside to let her pass, and their brutal faces brightened
at her glance.

She approached the victim with her light step. Her
pretty Djali followed her. Gringoire was more dead than
alive. She gazed at him an instant in silence.

Are you going to hang this man ? ’’ %she gravely asked
Clopin.

Yes, sister,'' replied the King of Tunis, '' unless you ’ll
take hini for your husband.”

She pouted her pretty lower lip, *

I ’ll take him,” said she.

Gringoire here firmly believed that he had been dream-
ing ever since morning, and that this was tlie end of
the dream.

In fact, the sudden change of fortune, though charming,
was violent.

The slip-noose was unfastened, the poet was helped

NOTRE-BAME.

from his stool. He wa.s obliged to seat himself, so great
was his agitation.

The Duke of Egypt, without uttering a word, brought
forward an earthen jug. The gypsy girl offered it to
Gringoire. “ Throw it down,” she said to him.

The jug was broken into four pieces.

“Brother,” then said the Duke of Egypt, laying his
liands on their heads, “ she is your wife ; sister, he is your
husband. For four years. Go ! ”

m ;

','5' ■ " .

A WEDDING NIGHT.

A FEW moments later, our poet found himself in a
small room with a vaulted roof, very snug, very
warm, seated before a table which seemed to ask nothing
better than to borrow a few stores from a hanging cup-
board close by; with a good bed in prospect, and alone
with a pretty girl. The adventure partook of the nature
of magic. He began seriously to think himself the hero of
some fairy-tale; now and then he gazed about him as if in
search of the fairy chariot, di'awu by two winged steeds,
which could alone have transported him so swiftly from
Tartarus to Paradise. Occasionally his eyes were riveted
on the holes in his doublet, to bring himself back to actual
things, and lest he should quite lose sight of land. His
reason, floating in imaginary realms, had only this tliread
to cling to.

-nothb-dame.";;

The young girl apparently took no notice of him: slie
came and went/ moved a stool, chatted with her goat,
smiled, and pouted. Finally she seated herself at the
table, and Gringoire could study her at his leisiire.

You were once a child, reader, and you may be liieky
enough to be one still You must more than once (and
for my part I spent whole days at it, the best days of my
life) have pursued from bush to bush, on tlie brink of some
brisk stream, in bright sunshine, some lovely green or
azure dragon-liy, which checked its flight at sharp angles,
and kissed the tip of every twig. You will remember tlie
loving curiosity with which your mind and your eye fol-
lowed that buzzing, whizzing little whirlwind, with blue
and purple wings, between which floated an intangible
form, veiled by the very swiftness of its motion. The airy
creature, vaguely seen amid the quivering wings, seemed
to you chimerical, imaginary, impossible to touch, impos-
sible to see. But when the dragon-fly at last rested on the
tip of a reed, and you could examine, holding your breath
meanwhile, its slender gauzy wings, its long enamelled
robes, its crystal globe-like eyes, what amazement you
felt, and what fear lest it should again fade to a sliadow
and the creature turn to a chimera! Eecall tliese sen-
sations, and you will readily appreciate what Gringoirci
felt as lie beheld in visible, palpable form tliat Esmeralda
of whom he had hitherto had but a glimpse amidst the
eddying dance and song, and a confused mass of people.

Becoming more and more absorbed in liis reverie, he
thought: ^‘This, then, is ^ Esmeralda M a celestial creature!
a street dancer I So much and so little ! It was she who

A WEDDING NIGHT. 149

put tlie finisliing stroke to my play this morning ; it was
she who saved my life this evening. My evil genius!
iny good angel I A pretty woman, upon my word! And
she must love me to distraction to take me in this iasliion.
By the bye,” said he, rising suddenly with that sense of
truth which formed the basis of his character and liis
philosophy, “ I don't quite know how it came about, but
I am her husband!”

With this idea in„ mind and in his eyes, he approached
the young girl in so military and loverdike a fasliion that
she shrank away from him.

What do you want ? ” she said.

“ Can you ask me, adorable Esmeralda ? ” replied Grin-
goire in such impassioned tones theit he himself was
astounded at his own accents.

The gypsy girl stared at him. I don't know what you
mean.”

'' Oh, come now ! ” added Gringoire, becoming more and
more excited, and thinking that after all he was only deal-
ing with the ready-made virtue of the Court of Miracles ;
am I not yours, sweet friend ? Are you not mine ? ”

And, quite innocently, he clasped her hy the waist.

The girl’s bodice slipped through his hands like a
snake's skin. She leaped from one end of the little cell
to the other, stooped, and rose with a tiny dagger in her
hand, before Gringoire had time to see whence this dagger
came, — proud, angry, with swelling lips, dilated nostrils,
clieeks red as crab-apples, and eyes flashing lightning.
At the same time the wliite goat placed itself before her,
and presented a battle-front to Gringoire, bristling with

150

NOTRE-DAME.

two pretty, gilded, and very sharp horns. All this took
place in the twinkling of an eye.

The damsel had turned wasp, and asked nothing better
than to sting.

Our philosopher stood abashed, glancing alternately at
the girl and the goat in utter confusion. “ Holy Virgin 1 ’’
he exclaimed at last, when surprise allowed him to speak,
''here's a determined pair I”

The gypsy girl broke the silence in her turn. " You
must be a very bold rascal!”

" Forgive me, mademoiselle,” said Gringoire with a smile.
“But why did you marry me, then*?”

“ Was I to let them hang you ? ”

“So,” replied the poet, somewhat disappointed in his
amorous hopes, “ you had no other idea in wedding me than
to save me from the gibbet?”

“ And what other idea should I have had ? ”

Gringoire bit * his lips. “Well,” said he, “I am -not
quite such a conquering hero as I supposed. But then,
what was the use of breaking that poor jug?”

But Esmeralda’s dagger and the goat's horns still re-
mained on the defensive.

“ Mademoiselle Esmeralda,” said the poet, “ let us come
to terms. I am not clerk of the Ch^telet, and I shall not
pick a quarrel with you for carrying concealed weapons in
Paris, in the face of the provost's orders and prohibition.
Yet you must know that IsToel Lescrivain was sentenced
to pay ten Paris pence only a week ago for wearing a
broadsword. ISTow, that is none of rny business, and I
will come to the point. T swear to you, by all my hopes

A WEDDING NIGHT,

151

of Paradise, that I will not come near you without
your sovereign leave and permission ; but give me some
supper”

To tell the truth, Gringoire, like Desprdaux, was very
little of a Don J uaii.” He was not one of the chivalric,
musketeeriiig kind who take girls by storm. In the
matter of love, as in all other matters, he was always for
temporizing and compromising; and a good supper, in
friendly society, struck him, especially when ho was
hungry, as an excellent interlude between the prologue
and the issue of an intrigue.

The gypsy made no answer. She gave her usual scorn-
ful little pout, cocked her head like a bird, then burst out
laughing, and the dainty dagger disappeared as it came,
Gringoire being still unable to discover where the bee hid
her sting.

A moment later, a rye loaf, a slice of bacon, a few
withered apples, and a jug of beer were on the table.
Gringoire began to eat greedily. Judging by the fierce
clatter of his iron fork against his earthen plate, all his
love had turned to hunger.

The young girl seated near him looked on in silence,
evidently absorbed in other thoughts, at which she occa-
sionally smiled, while her gentle hand caressed the intelli-
gent head of the goat as it rested idly against her knee.

A yellow wax candle lit up this scene of voracity and
reverie.

However, the first cravings of hunger appeased, Grin-
goire felt somewhat ashamed to find that there was but one
apple left, '' You don't eat, Mademoiselle Esmeralda ? ''

152

NOTRE~DAME.

vShe answered by a shake of the head, and her pensive
gaze was fixed on the arched roof of the cell.

What the deuce is she thinking about ? ” thought
Gringoire ; and, looking to see what she was looking at :

It can’t be the wry face of that stone dwarf carved upon
yonder keystone which so absorbs her attention. What
the devil ! I ’m sure I can stand the comparison I ”

He raised his voice : “ Mademoiselle 1 ”

She did not seem to hear him.

He spoke still louder : Mademoiselle Esmeralda ! ”
Labor lost. The girl’s mind was elsewhere, and Grin-
goire’s voice had no power to call it back. Luckily the
goat interfered, by softly pulling her mistress by the
sleeve.

‘ What do you want, Djali ? ” said the gypsy hastily, as
if roused suddenly.

The creature is hungry ” said Gringoire, delighted to
open the conversation.

Esmeralda began to crumble some bread, which Djali
nibbled daintily from the hollow of her hand.

However, Gringoire gave her no time to resume her
reverie. -He risked a delicate question, —

'' Then you don’t want me for your husband ? ”

The young girl looked steadily at him, and replied.
No.”

“ For your lover ? ” continued Griiigoire.

She pouted, and answered, No.”

For your friend ? ” went on Gringoire.

She looked at him fixedly once more, and after an iii'-
stant’s reflection, said, Perhaps.”

A WEDDING NIGHT.

This ''perhaps,” so dear to philosophers, ernboldeuecl
Grin go ire.

“ Do you know what friendship is ? ” he asked.

"Yes,” answered the gypsy; "it is to be brother and,
sister ; two souls which meet without mingling, two lingers
of one hand.”

" And love ? ” continued Griugoire.

Oh, love I ” said she, and her voice trembled and her
eye brightened. "That is to be two and yet but one. A
man and a woman blended into an angel. It is heaven
itself.”

The street dancer assumed a beauty, as she spoke, which
struck Griugoire strangely, and seemed to him in perfect
harmony with the almost Oriental exaltation of her words.
Her pure rosy lips half smiled; her serene and innocent
brow was clouded for the moment by her thought, as when
a mirror is dimmed by a breath ; and from her long, dark,
drooping lashes flashed an ineffable light, which lent her
profile that ideal sweetness which Eaphael has since found
at the mystic meeting-point of the virgin, the mother, and
the saint.

IsTevertheless, Gringoire kept on, —

" What must one be to please you, then 1 ”

" He must be a man.”

" And I,” said he, — " what am I ? ”

" A man with a helmet on his head, a sword in his hand,
and golden spurs on his heels.”

" Good 1 ’’ said Gringoire ; " dress makes the man. Do you
love any one ? ”

154 NOTBE-BAME.

A, 1^^^

She looked pensive for a moment; then she said with a
peculiar expression, "‘I shall know soon.”

Why not to-night ? ” said the poet, tenderly ; why not

She cast a serious glance at him.

I can only love a man who can protect me.’'

Gringoire flushed, and was silent. It was evident that
the young girl alluded to the slight assistance which he
had afforded her in the critical situation in which she had
found herself a couple of hours previous. This memory,
blotted out by the other adventures of the evening, re-
turned to him. He struck his brow.

By the bye, Mademoiselle, I ought to have begun there.
Forgive me my foolish distractions. How did you manage
to escape from Quasimodo’s claws ? ”

This question made the gypsy shudder.

'' Oh, the horrid hunchback 1” she cried, hiding her face
in her hands.

And she shivered as if icy cold.

“ Horrid, indeed,” said Gringoire, not dropping the sub-
ject ; but how did you contrive to escape him ? ”

Esmeralda smiled, sighed, and was silent.

Do you know why he pursued you ? ” continued Grin-
goire, trying to get an answer by a roundabout way.

'' I don’t know,” said the girl. And she added quickly,

But you followed me too ; why did you follow me ? ”

In good faith,” replied Gringoire, I have forgotten.”

There was a pause. Gringoire slashed the table with
his knife. The girl smiled, and seemed to he gazing at

A WEDDING NIGHT.

155

something through the wall. All at once she began to
sing ill a voice v-hich was scarcely articulate, —

Quaiido las pintadas aves
Hildas estan, y la tierra — ”

She broke off abruptly, and began to fondle Djali.

‘'That’s a pretty creature of yours,” said Gringoire.

“ It is niy sister,” she replied.

" Why do they call you ' Esmeralda ’ ? ” the poet ven-
tured to ask.

“ I Ve no idea.”

“ But why do they ? ”

She drew from her bosom a small oblong bag fastened to
her neck by a string of beads made of some sweet-scented
gum. This bag gave forth a strong smell of camphor; it
was made of green silk, and had in the centre a large bit
of green glass, in imitation of an emerald.

'^ Perhaps it is on account of that,” said she.

Gringoire tried to take the bag. She drew back.

"Don’t touch it ! It^’s an amulet. You will injure the
charm, or the charm you.”

The poet’s curiosity was more and more eagerly aroused.

" Who gave it to you ? ”

She put her finger to her lip and hid the amulet in
her bosom. He tried her with other C[iiestionSj but she
scarcely answered him.

" What does tlie word ^ Esmeralda’ mean ? ”

" I don’t know,” said she.

" To what language does it belong ? ”

" I think it is a gypsy word.”

156

NOTKE-DAMB.

So I suspected/’ said Gringoire ; " you are not a native
of France ? ”

'' I know nothing about it.”

'' Are your parents living ? ”

She began to sing, to an ancient air : —

A bird is my mother,

My father another.

Nor boat nor bark need I
As over the sea I fly ;

A bird is my mother,

My father another.”

«Very good,” said Gringoire. "'At what age did you
come to France ? ”

When I was veay small.”

"To Paris?”

"Last year. Just as we entered the Papal Gate, I saw
the reed warbler skim through the air; it was the last
of August. I said: It will be a hard winter.”

“ So it has been,” said Gringoire, charmed at this be-
ginning of conversation ; " I have spent it in blowing on
my fingers to keep them warm. So you have the gift of
prophecy ? ”

She fell back into her laconicism.

, "No.”

" Is that man whom you call the Duke of Egypt, the
head of your tribe?”

"Yes.”

" But it was he who married us,” timidly remarked the
poet.

She made her usual pretty grimace.

" I don’t even know your name.”

, 157 :

xl WEDDING NIGHT,

My name? You shall have it, if you wish : Pierre
Gringoire.’*

''I know a nicer one/' said she.

'' Cruel girl ! " replied the poet. Fever mind, you sliall
not vex me. Stay; pei'haps you will love me wlien you
know me better; and then you told me your history so
confidingly, that I owe you somewhat of mine. You must
know, then, that my name is Pierre Griiigoire, and that
1 am the son of the notary of Gonesse. My father was
hanged by the Burgundians and my mother ripped up by the
Picards, at the time of the siege of Paris, now twenty years
ago. At the age of six years, therefore, I was left an
orphan, with no sole to my foot but the pavement of Paris.
I don't know how I managed to exist from six to sixteen.
A fruit-seller would give me a plum, a baker would throw"
me a crust ; at nightfall I would contrive to be caught by
the watch, who put me in prison, and there I found a
bundle of straw. All this did not hinder me from growing
tall and thin, as you see. In winter time I warmed my-
self in the sun, under the portico of the H6tel de Sens, and
I thought it very absurd .that the hale-fires of St. John
should be deferred until the dog-days. At the age of
sixteen I wdshed to learn a trade. I tried everything in
turn. I became a soldier, but I wms not brave enough. I
turned monk, hut I was not pious enough ; and then, I 'm
no drinker. In despair, I became a carpenter's apprentice,
hut I was not strong enough. I had more liking for the
schoolmaster’s trade ; true, I did not know how to read,
but that was no hindrance. After a time, I discovered
that I lacked some necessary quality for everything; and

158

NOTRE-DAME.

seeing that I was good for nothing, I became a poet and
composer of rhymes, of my own free will. That is a trade
that one can always take up when one is a vagabond ; and
it is better than stealing, as certain thievish young friends
of mine advised. By good luck, I one fine day encoimtered
Don Claude Frollo, the reverend archdeacon of Notre-
Dame. He took an interest in me, and it is to him I ow'e it
that I am now a genuine man of letters, knowing Latin^
from Cicero’s Offices to the necrology of the Celestiiie
Fathers, and being ignorant of neither scholastics, j^oetry,
nor rhythm, that sophism of sophisms. I am the author
of the miracle-play performed to-day wdth great triumph,
and before a great concourse of people, in the hall of the
Palace. I have also written a book which will make six
hundred pages, on the wonderful comet of 1465, which
drove one man mad. I have also had other successes.
Being somewhat of an engineer, I worked on Jean
Maugue’s great bomb, which you know burst on Chareiiton
Bridge the day that it w^as to be tested, and killed twenty-
four of the curious spectators. You see that I am by no
means a bad match. I know a great many sorts of delight-
ful tricks which I will teach your goat ; for instance, how
to take off the Bishop of Paris, that accursed Parisian wliose
mills bespatter all those who pass over the Millers’ Bridge.
And then, my miracle-play will bring me in plenty of
ready money if they pay me. Finally, I am at your service,
T and my wit and my science and iny learning, — ready to
live with you, lady, as it may please you : soberly or
merrily ; as husband and wife if you see fit ; as brother
and sister if you prefer.”

A WEDDING NIGHT.

159

Gringoire ceased, awaiting the effect of this speech upon
the young girl Her eyes were bent on the floor.

' Phoebus/ she said in an undertone. Then, turning
to the poet, ‘ Phoebus ; ' what does that mean ? ”

Gringoire, scarcely comprehending the connection be-
tween his words and this question, was nothing loath
to display his erudition. Pie answered, drawing him-
self up, —

“ It is a Latin word signifying ‘ sun. ’ **

' Sun ’ ? ” she repeated.

" It is the name of a certain handsome archer who was
a god/’ added Gringoire.

A god !” repeated the gypsy ; and there was something
pensive and passionate in her tone.

At this moment, one of her bracelets became unfastened
and fell. Gringoire stooped quickly to pick it up ; when
he rose, the girl and the goat had disappeared. . He heard
a bolt slide across a small door, doubtless communicating
with a neighboring cell, which was fastened on the other
side.

“At least, I hope she has left me a bed!” said our
philosopher.

He walked round the room. There was nothing fit to
sleep upon except a long wooden chest ; and even that had
a carved lid, which gave Gringoire a feeling, when he
stretched himself out upon it, very like that experienced
by Micromegas ^ when he slept at full length upon the
Alps.

^ A character in a tale by Yoltaire.

160

NOTRB-DAME.

“Come,” said he, making himself as comfortable as he
could, “ I must submit to fate. But this is an odd wedding
night. It is a pity ; there was something simple and ante-
diluvian about this marriage with a broken jug, which I
liked.”

NOTIIE-DAME.

'’"T^HE Church of ISTotre-Dame at Paris is doubtless still a
sublime and majestic building. But, much beauty
as it may retain in its old age, it is not easy to repress a
sigh, to restrain our anger, when we mark the countless
delacements and mutilations to which men and Time have
subjected that venerable monument, without res|>ect for

11

,162

NOTRE-BAME.

Oliarlemagne, wlio laid its first stone, or Philip Augustus,
who laid its last.

Upon the face of this aged queen of French catliedrals,
beside every wrinkle we find a scar. '' Tcmpm edax, homo
cdaeior; ” which I would fain translate thus : '' Time is
blind, but man is vStupid.”

Had we leisure to study with the reader, one by one,
the various marks of destruction graven upon the ancient
church, the work of Time would be the lesser, the worse
that of Men, especially of ‘‘men of art,'’ since there are
persons who have styled themselves architects during the
last two centuries.

And first of all, to cite but a few glaring instances, there
are assuredly few finer pages in the history of architecture
than that facade where the three receding portals with their
pointed arches, the carved and denticulated plinth with its
twenty-eight royal niches, the huge central rose-window
flanked by its two lateral windows as is the priest by his
deacon and subdeacon, the lofty airy gallery of trifoliated
arcades supporting a heavy platform upon its slender
columns, and lastly the two dark and massive towers wuth
their pent-house roofs of slate, harmonious parts of a mag-
nificent whole, one above the other, five gigantic stages, un-
fold themselves to the eye, clearly and as a whole, with their
countless details of sculpture, statuary, and carving, power-
fully contributing to the calm grandeur of the w’^hole ; as it
were, a vast symphony in stone ; the colossal work of one
man and one nation, one and yet complex, like the Iliad
and the old Eomance epics, to which it is akin ; tlie tre-
mendous sura of the joint contributions of all tlie forces

NOTRE-DAME.

163

of au entire epoch, in which eveiy stone reveals, in a
hundred forms, the fancy of the workman disciplined by
the genius of the artist,— a sort of human creation, in brief,
powerful and prolific as the Divine creation, whose double
characteristics, variety and eternity, it seems to have
acquired.

And what we say of the faQade, we must also say of
the whole church; and what we say of the cathedral
church of Paris must also be said of all the Christian
churches of the ]\liddle Ages. Everything is harmonious
which springs from that spontaneous, logical, and well-
proportioned art. To measure a toe, is to measure the
giant.

Let us return to the faqade of Notre-Dame as we see
it at the present day, when we make a pious pilgrimage
to admire the solemn and mighty cathedral, which, as its
chroniclers declare, inspires terror; “Quce w.ole sua terro-
rem incutit spectant'ihiis.”

This facade now lacks three important things : first, the
eleven steps wliich formerly raised it above the level of
the ground ; next, the lower series of statues which filled
the niches over the doors ; and lastly, the upper row of the
twenty-eight most ancient kings of France, which adorned
the gallery of the first story, from Childebert down to
Philip Augustus, each holding in his hand “ the imperial
globe.”

The stairs were destroyed by Time, which, with slow
and irresistible progress, raised the level of the City’s
soil; but \vhile this flood-tide of the pavements of Paris
swallowed one by one the eleven steps which added to the

SOTRE-DAME.

majestic height of the edifice. Time has perhaps given to
the church more than it took away, for it is Time which has
painted the front with that sober hue of centuries which
makes the antiquity of churches their greatest beauty.

But who pulled down the two rows of statues ? Who
left those empty niches ? Who carved that new and bas-
tard pointed arch in the very centre of the middle door ?
Who dared to insert that clumsy, tasteless wooden door,
carved in the style of Louis XV., side by side with the

NOTRE-DAME. ' ; v 165^

arabesques of Biscoriiette ? Who but men, architects, the
artists of our day ?

And if we step into the interior of the edifice, who
overthrew that colossal figure of Saint Christopher, prover-
bial among statues by the same right as the Great Hall oi*
the Palace among halls, as the spire of Strasburg among
steeples ? And those myriad statues winch peopled every
space between the columns of the choir and the nave, kneel-
ing, standing, on horseback, men, women, children, kings,
bishops, men-at-arms, — of stone, of marble, of gold, of
silver, of copper, nay,, even of wax, — who brutally swept
them away? ^It was not the hand of Time.

And who replaced the old Gothic altar, with its splen-
did burden of shrines and reliquaries, by that heavy mar-
ble sarcophagus adorned with clouds and cherubs, looking
like a poor copy of the Val-de-GiAce or the Hotel des
Invalides ? Who was stupid enough to fasten that clum-
sy stone anachronism into the Carlovingiaii pavement of
Hercandus ? Was it not Louis XIY., fulfilling the vow of
Louis XIIT. ?

And who set cold white panes in place of tliat stained
glass of gorgeous hue,^ whicla led the wondering gaze of
our fathers to roam uncertain Twixt the rose-window of
the great door and the ogives of the cliaiicel ? And
what would a precentor of the sixteenth centuiy say if lie
could see the fine coat of yellow wash with wliich our
Vandal archbishops have smeared their cathedral ? He
would remember that this was the color with wliich the
executioner formerly painted those buildings judged ''in-
famous;” he would recall the liotel of the Petit-Boiubon,

166

NOTRE-BAME.

bedaubed with, yellow in memory of the Constable’s
treason ; a yellow of so fine a temper/’ says Sauval, '' and
so well laid on, that more than a hundred years have failed
to wash out its color/’ He would fancy that the sacred
spot had become accursed, and would turn and iiee.

And if we climb higher in the cathedral, without paus-
ing to note a thousand barbarous acts of every kind, wliat
has become of that delightful little steeple which rested
upon the point of intersection of the transept, and which,
no less fragile and no less daring than its neighbor, the
spire of the Sainte-Chapelle (also destroyed), rose yet near-
er heaven than the towers, slender, sharp^ sonorous, and
daintily wrought ? An architect of good taste (1787) am-
putated it, and thought it quite enongli to cover the wmund
with that large leaden plaster which looks like the lid of a
stewpan. Thus was the marvellous art of the Middle
Ages treated in almost every land, but particularly in
France. We find three sorts of injury upon its ruins,
these three marring it to diiferent depths : first. Time,
which has made insensible breaches here and there, mil-
dewed and rusted the surface everywhere ; then, political
and religious revolutions, which, blind and fierce by nature,
fell furiously upon it, rent its rich array of sculpture and
carving, shivered its rose-windows, shattered its necklaces
of arabesques and quaint figures, tore down its statues, —
sometimes because of their mitre, sometimes because of
their crown ; lastly, changing fashion, ever more grotesque
and absurd, from the anarchic and splendid deviations of
the Eenaissance down to the necessary decline of archi-
tecture. Fashion did more harm than revolutions. Fashion

NOTKE-BAME. 167

cut into the living flesh, attacked the very skeleton and
framework of "art; it chopped and hewed, dismeinbered,
slew the edifice, in its form as well as in its symbolism, in
its logic no less than in its beauty. But fashion restored,
a thing which neither time nor revolution ever pretended
to do. Fashion, on the plea of “good taste,” impudently
adapted to the wounds of Gothic architecture the paltry
gewgaws of a day, — marble ribbons, metallic plumes, a
veritable leprosy of egg-shaped mouldings, of volutes,
wreaths, draperies, spirals, fringes, stone flames, bronze
clouds, lusty cupids, and bloated cherubs, which began
to ravage the face of art in the oratory of Catherine de
M^decis, and destroyed it, two centuries later, tortured
and distorted, in the Dubarry's boudoir.

There are thus, to sum up the points to which we have
alluded, three sorts of scars now disfiguring Gothic archi-
tecture : wrinkles and warts upon the epidermis, — these
are the work of time ; wounds, brutal injuries, bruises, and
fractures, — these are the work of revolution, from Luther
to Mirabeau ; mutilations, amputations, dislocations of
the frame, “restorations,” — these are the Greek, Eoman,
Barbaric work of professors according to Vitruvius and
Vignole. Academies have murdered the magnificent art
which the Vandals produced. To centuries, to revolutions
which at least laid w’^aste with impartiality and grandeur,
are conjoined the host of scholastic architects, licensed
and sworn, degrading all they touch with the discernment
and selection of bad taste, substituting the tinsel of Louis
XV. for Gothic lace-work, for the greater glory of the
Parthenon. This is the donkey's kick at the dying lion.

1Gb

NOTRE-BAMK.

It is the old oak, decaying at the crown, pierced, bitten,
and devoured by caterpillars.

How diflbrent from the time wlien liobert Conalis, com-'
paring Notre-lJame at Paris to the famous temple of
Diana at Ephesus, “so loudly boasted by the ancient
pagans,’’ whicli immortalized Erostrates, held the cathe-
dral of the Gauls to be “ more excellent in lengtli, breadth,
height, and structure 1” ^

Notre-Dame at Paris is not, Iiowever, what can be
called a complete, deduite monument, belonging to a class*
It is neither a Poman nor a Gothic church. The edifice
is not a typical one. It has not, like the abbey at
Tournus, tlie sober massive breadth, tlie round expansive
arch, the icy bareness, the majestic simplicity of those
buildings based on the semicii*cular arch. It is not, like
the cathedral at Bourges, the magnificent, airy, innltiforin,
bushy, sturdy, eitlorescent product of the pointed arch.
It is impossible to class it with that antique order of dark,
mysterious, low-studded churclies, apparently crushed by
the semicircular arch, — almost Egyptian, save for the ceil-
ing ; all hieroglyphic, all sacerdotal, all symbolic, more
loaded in their ornamentation with lozenges and zigzags
than with flowers, with flowers than witli animals, with
animals than with men; less the work of the architect
than of the bishop ; the first transformation of the art,
beariug the deep impress of theocratic and military disci-
pline, taking root in the Lower Empire, and ceasing with
William the Conqueror. It is impossible to place our catlie-
dral ill that otlier family of lofty, aerial churches, rich in

1 Oallican History, book ii. period iii. fo. 130, p. 1,

NOTRE-BAMU.

169

staiiied glass and sculpture ; of pointed forms and daring
attitudes ; belonging to the commoners and plain citizens,
as political symbols ; free, capricious, lawless, as works (A*
art ; the second transformation of architecture, no longer
hieroglyphic, unchangeable, sacerdotal, but artistic, pro-
gressive, and popular, beginning with the close of the Cru-
sades and ending witli Louis XL Notre-Dame at Paris
is not of purely Koman race like the former, nor of purely
Arab breed like the latter.

It is a building of the transition period. The Saxon
architect had just reared the pillars of the nave, when the
pointed arch, brought back from the Crusades, planted it-
self as conqueror upon those broad Eoman capitals which
were never meant to support anything but semicircular
arches. The pointed arch, thenceforth supreme, built the
rest of the church. And still, inexperienced and, shy at
first, it swelled, it widened, it restrained itself, and dared
not yet shoot up into spires and lancets, as it did later on
in so many marvellous cathedrals. It seemed sensible of
the close vicinity of the heavy Eoman columns.

Moreover, these buildings of the transition from Eoman
to Gothic are no less valuable studies than the pure types.
They express a gradation of the art wliicli would otlierwi.se
be lost. They represent the ingrafting of the pointed arch
upon the semicircular.

Xotre-Dame at Paris, in particular, is a curious example
of this variety. Livery face, every stone of tlie venerable
monument is a page not only of the history of the country,
but also of the history of science and art. Thus, to allude
only to leading details, while the little Porte Rouge attains

170

NOTRE-DAMK.

almost the extreme limit of the Gothic refiBements of the
fifteenth century, the pillars of the nave, in their size and
gravity of style, go back to the Carlovingian Abbey of Saint-
Germain des Prds. One would say that there was an in-
terval of six centuries between that door and those pillars.
Even the Hernietics find among the symbols of the great
door a satisfactory epitome of their science, of wliich the
Church of St. Jacques de la Boucherie formed so complete
a hieroglyph. Thus, the Eoman abbey, the philosophers'
church, Gothic art, Saxon art, the clumsy round pillar,
which recalls Gregory VII, , the hermetic symbolism by
which Mcolas Elamel paved the way for Lutlier, papal
unity, scliism, Saint-Germain des Prds, Saint-Jacques de la
Boucherie, are all confounded, combined, and blended in
N'otre-Daine. This central and generative church is a
kind of chimera among the old churches of Paris ; it has
the head of one, the limbs of another, the trunk of a third,
something of all.

We repeat it; these hybrid constructions are by no means
the least interesting to the artist, the antiquary, and the
historian. They show us to how great an extent archi-
tecture is a primitive thing, in that they demonstrate (as
the Cyclopean remains, the pyramids of Egypt, the vast
pagodas of India demonstrate) that the gTeatest products
of architecture are not so much individual as they are
social works ; rather the children of nations in labor than
the inspired efforts of men of genius ; tlie legacy of a race ;
the accumulated wealth of centuries; the residuum of the
successive evaporations of human society, — in a word, a
species of formation. Every wave of time adds its alluvium,

NOTRE-DAME.

171

every race leaves a fresh layer on the monument, every
individual brings his stone. Thus the beavers work, thus
work the bees, thus works man. The great symbol of
architecture, Babel, is a beehive.

Great buildings, like great mountains, are the work of
centuries. Art is often transformed while they are still
pending , — ^mdcnt opera intempta; they go on quietly,
in harmony with the changes in the art. The ne\v form
of art takes up the monument where it finds it, becomes a
part of it, assimilates it to itself, develops it according to
its fancy, and finishes it if it can. The thing is done
without effort, without reaction, in accordance with a
natural and tranquil law. It is like a budding graft, like
circulating saj), like renewed vegetation. Certainly, there
is matter for many big books, and often for the universal
history of humanity, in these successive weldings of various
forms of art at various levels upon one and the same struc-
ture. The man, the artist and the individual are obliter-
ated in these huge anonymous piles; they represent the
sum total of human intelligence. Time is the architect,
the nation is the mason.

Considering here Christian European architecture only,
that younger sister of the grand piles of the Orient, we
may say that it strikes the eye as a vast formation divided
into three very distinct zones or layers, one resting upon
the other : the Eoman zone,^ the Gothic zone, the zone of

1 The same which is also known, according to place, climate, and spe-
cies, as Lombard, Saxon, and Byzantine. These are the four sister forms
of architecture, each having its peculiar character, but all springing from
the same principle, the semicircular areli, —

Facies imi o)7imbits una,

Non dwersa tammqimlemf^ etc

172

NOTRE~Dx\ME.

the Eenaissance, which may be called the Greco-Itoman.
The Eoinan stratum, which is the oldest and the lowest, is
occupied by the semicircular arcli, which reaxipears, to-
gether with the Greek column, in the modern and iii)per-
most stratum of the Eenaissance. The pointed arch is
between the two. The buildings belonging to any one of
these three strata are perfectly distinct, uniform, and com-
plete. Such are the Abbey of Jumidges, the Cathedral of
Eheims, the Church of the Holy Cross at Orleans, But
the three zones are blended and mingled at the edges,
like the colors in the solar spectrum. Hence, we have
certain complex structures, buildings of gradation and tran-
sition, which may be Eoman at the base, Gothic in the
middle, and Greco-Eoman at the top. This is caused by
the fact that it took six hundred years to build such a
fabric. This variety is rare. The donjon-keep at iltampes
is a specimen. But monuments of two formations are more
frequent Suchis Notre-Dame at Paris, a structure, of the
pointed arch, its earliest columns leading directly to that
Eornan zone, of which the portal of Saint-Denis and the
nave of Saint-Germain des Prds are perfect specimens.
Such is the charming semi-Gothic chapter-house of Bocher-
ville, where the Eoman layer reaches midway. Such is
the cathedral of Eouen, which would be wholly Gothic if
the tip of its central spire did not dip into the zone of the
Eenaissance.^

However, all th6se gradations and differences affect the
surfece only of an edifice. Art has but changed its skin.
The construction itself of the Christian church is not

1 This part of the spire, which was of timber, happens to be the very
part which was burned by lightning in 1823.

NOTRE-BAME.

its

afl’ected by tlieni. The interior arraiigemeiit, the logical
order of the parts, is still the same. Whatever may be
the carved and nicely-wrought exterior of a cathedral, we
always find beneath it, if
only ill a rudimentary a
dormant state, the Eornan
basilica. It rises forever from
the ground in harmony with
the same law. There are
invariably two naves inter-
secting each other in the
form of a cross, the upper
end bei ng rounded into a
chancel or choir; tliere are
always side aisles, for pro-
cessions and for chapels, a
sort of lateral galleries or
w'alks, into which the princi-
pal nave opens by means of the spaces between the col-
umns. This settled, the number of chapels, doors, steeples,
and spires may be modified indefinitely, according to the
fancy of the century, the people, and the art. The per-
formance of divine service once provided for and assured,
architecture acts its own pleasure. Statues, stained glass,
rose- windows, arabesques, denticulations, capitals, and bas-
reliefs, — it combines all these flowers of the fancy accord-
ing to the logarithm that suits it best. Hence the immense
variety in the exteriors of those structures within which
dwell such tinity and order. The trunk of the tree is
fixed; the foliage is variable.

A BiED’S-EYE VIEW OF PARIS,

I F the last chapter we strove to restore the wonderful
Church of Fotre-Darne at Paris for the reader’s pleas-
ure. We briefly pointed out the greater part of the
charms which it possessed in the fifteenth century and
which it now lacks ; but we omitted the chief beauty, —
the view of Paris then to be had from the top of its
towers.

It was, indeed, when after long fumbling in the gloomy
spiral staircase which pierces perpendicularly the thick wall
of the steeples you Anally emerged suddenly upon one of
the two lofty platforms bathed in sunshine and daylight,* —
it was, indeed, a flne picture which lay unrolled before you
on every hand ; a spectacle S2ii ge7ieris, as those of our
readers can readily imagine who have been so fortunate
as to see one of the few Gothic cities still left entire, com-
plete, and homogeneous, such as Furemberg in Bavaria,
and Vittoria in Spain ; or even smaller examples, if they

A EIRB’S-EYE VIBW OE PARIS. ITS

be but well preserved, like Vi tr^ in Brittany, and iSTord-
hausen in Prussia.

The Paris of three hundred and fifty years ago/ the Paris
of the fifteenth century, had already attained to vast di-
mensions, We modern Parisians are apt to deceive our-
selves in regard to the ground which we imagine we have
gained since then. Paris has not grown much more than
a third larger since the days of Louis XL It has cer-
tainly lost far more in beauty than it has gained in size.

Paris was born, as every one knows, on that island of
the City which is shaped like a cradle. The shores of
that island were her first enclosure, the Seine her first
moat. Paris remained for several centuries in the state of

it'' ■ . /. , ■

an island, with two bridges, one on the north, the other on
the south, and two bridge-heads, at once her gates and her
fortresses : the Grand-Ch^telet on the right bank, the Petit-
Chatelet on the left. With the first line of kings, being
pressed for room in her island, hack of which she no
longer could return, Paris crossed the water. Then, be-
yond tlie two Ch^telets, the first enclosing line of walls
and towers began to encroach upon the country region
on either side the Seine. Some traces of this ancient
boundary wall still existed in the last century; now,
nothing but the memory of it survives, and here, and
there a local tradition, like the Porte des Baudets or
Baudoyer, Forta Fagauda. Little by little the flood of
houses, perpetually driven from the centre of the city,
overflowed, made breaches in, and wmre away this enclo-
sure. Philip Augustus made a new embankment, and con-
fined Paris within a circular chain of great towers, tall and

176 NOTBE-DAME.

solid. For more thaD a hundred years the houses pressed
one upon the other, accumulated and raised their level
%Yithin this basin, like water in a reservoir. They began
to grow higher ; they added story to story ; they climbed
one upon the other; they leaped up in height like any
repressed fluid, vying each with the other in raising its
head above its neighbor’s to get a little air. The streets
became deeper and narrower; every vacant space Yvas
filled up and disappeared. The houses at last leaped
the wall of‘ Philip Augustus! scattered merrily over the
plain irregularly and all awry, like so many schoolboys
let loose. There they strutted proudly about, cut them-
selves gardens from the fields, and to^ok their ease. By
1367 the city had extended so far into the suburbs that a
new boundary wall was needed, particularly on the right
bank of the river ; Charles V. built it But a city like
Paris is in a perpetual state of growth. It is only such
cities which ever become capitals. They are funnels into
which flow all tlie geographical, political, and intellectual
watersheds of a country, all the natural tendencies of a
nation : w^ells of civilization, as it were, and also sewers,
into which trade, commerce, intellect, population, all the
vigor, all the life, all the soul of a nation unceasingly filter
and 'collect, drop by drop, century after century. Charles
V.’s boundary wall followed in the footsteps of tliat of
Philip Augustus. By the end of the fifteenth century, it
was overtaken, left behind, and the suburbs advanced yet
farther. In the sixteenth, the wall seemed to recede visi-
bly, and to be more and more deeply buried in the old
city, so thickly did the new town spring up outside it.

A BIRD^S~EYB VIEW OF PARIS.

177

Thus, in the fifteenth century, to stop there, Paris had
already worn out the three eoncentric circles of walls,
which in the time of Julian the Apostate were, as we
may say, in the germ, in the Grand-Chatelet and the Petit-
Clnttelet. The mighty city rent asunder its four girdles
of ramparts in succession, like a child outgrowing his last
year s clothes. Under Louis XL, groups of the ruined
towers belonging to the old enclosure rose here and there
from the sea of houses like hill-tops after a flood, — archi-
pelagoes, as it were, of the old Paris submerged beneath
the new.

Since then Paris has, unfortunately for us, undergone
another transformation, but has crossed only one more w'all,
that of Louis XV., that miserable rampart of lath and
plaster, worthy of the king who built it, wmrthy of the poet
who celebrated it in a verse defying translation : —

“ Le luiir murant Paris rend Paris mnrmurant.”

In the fifteenth century, Paris was still divided into
three (piite distinct and separate cities, each possessing its
own physiognomy, peculiar features, manners, customs,
privileges, and history, — the City, the University, and the
Town. The City, which occupied the island, was the old-
est, the smallest, and the mother of the other two, crowded
in between them (if we may he allowed the comparison)
like a little old woman between two tall handsome daugh-
ters. The University covered the left bank of the Seine,
from the Tournelle to the Tour de Nesle, points correspond-
ing in the Paris of to-day to the Wine-market and the
Mint. Its precincts infringed boldly upon the region where

NOTRE-DAME.

J iilian built Ins baths. St. Genevieve's Mount was included
in this division. The culminating point of this curve
of walls was the Porte Papale, that is, just about where
the Pantheon now stands. The Town, which was the
largest of the three parts of Paris, held possession of the
right bank of the river. Its quay, broken and interrupted
at various points, ran along the Seine, from the Tour de
Billy to the Tour du Bois ; that is, from the present site of
the Public Granaries to the present site of the Tuileries.
These four points, at which the river intersected the pre-
cincts of the capital ; the Tournelle and the Tour de Nesle
on the left, the Tour de Billy and the Tour du Bois on the
right, were called the “ Pour Towers of Paris," by %vay of
distinction. The Town extended even farther into the
country than the University. The extreme limits of the
Town (in the time of Charles V.) were the Fortes Saint-
Denis and Saint-Martin, the situation of which has not
been changed.

As we have just observed, each of these three great di-
visions of Paris was a city in itself, but a city too indi-
vidual to be complete, — a city which could not dispense
with the aid of the other two. Thus, they were utterly
unlike in aspect. Churches abounded in the City, palaces
in the Town, and colleges in the University. To pass
over tlie minor eccentricities of old Paris and the caprices
of those persons holding right of road, we may make the
general statement — speaking only of the great masses in
the chaos of communal jurisdictions — that the island was
subject to the bishop, the right bank of the river to the
provost, and the left bank to the rector; the Provost or

179

A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF PARIS.

Mayor of Paris, a royal and not a municipal officer, baving
authority over them all. Tlie City contained E'otre-Dame,
the Town the Louvre and the Hdtel de Ville, and the
University the College of the Sorbonne. The Town coii-
tained the Markets, the City the Hospital, the University
the Pr4-aux-Clercs. For any offence committed by a stu-
dent on the left bank of the river, he was tried upon the
island, at the Palace of Justice, or law courts, and pun-
ished on the right bank, at Montfaucon, unless the rec-
tor, finding the University strong and the king weak, inter-
fered ; for it was one of the privileges of the students to
be hanged in their own domain.

(Tlie majority of these privileges, it may be noted in
passing, — and there were many more desirable than this,
— had been extorted from various kings by riots and
revolts. This is the traditional course of things : a French
proverb declares that the king only grants what the peo-
ple wrest from him. There is an ancient charter which
states the fact with much simplicity; speaking of loyaltj^,
it says : “ Civihis fidelitas in reges, qum tammi cdiquoties
scditionihiis internipta, miilta peperit prwilegiar)

In the fifteenth century, the Seine washed the shores of
five islets within the precincts of Paris : the lie Louviers,
where there were then trees, and where there is now
nothing but wood ; the He aux Vaches and the He iSTotre-
Dame, both deserted, save for a single structure, both held
in fee by the bishop (in the ^ seventeenth century, these
two islands were made into 'one, now known as the lie
Saint-Louis) ; and lastly, the City, and at its extreme end
the islet of the Passeur aux Vaches, since submerged

beneath the platform of the Pont-Neuf. The City had
then five bridges: three on the right, — the Pont N’otre-
Daine and Pont an Change, of stone, the Pont aux Meu-
niers, of wood; two on the left side,- — the Petit-Pont,
of stone, tlie Pont Saint-Michel, of wood : all built over
with houses. The University had six gates, built by Philip

180 NOTEB-DAME.

Augustus ; starting from the Tonrnelle, there were the Porte
Saint-Victor, the Porte Bordelle, the Porte Papale, the
Porte Saint-Jacques, the Porte Saint-Michel, the Porte
Saint-Germain. The Town had six gates, built by Charles
V. ; starting from the Tour de Billy, there were the Porte
Saint-Autoine, the Porte du Temple, the Porte Saint-

A BIRD^S-lYE VIEW OF PARIS. 181

Martiii; the Porte Samt-Denis, the Porte Montmartre, and
the Porte Saint-Honord All these gates were strong, and
handsome also, which does not detract from strength, A
broad, deep moat, whose waters ran rapidly during winter
floods, washed the foot of the walls all around Paris, the
Seine providing the water. At night the gates were closed,
the river barred at each end of the town by great iron
chains, and Paris slept in peace.

A bird’s-eye view of these three boroughs — the City,
the University, and the Town — presented an inextricable
network of streets strangely entangled. But still, even at
first sight, it was apparent that these three fragments of
a city formed but one body. One saw at once two long
parallel streets, without break or deviation, running almost
in a straight line, and traversing the three towns from end
to end, from north to south, perpendicular to the Seine,
connecting them, uniting them, infusing, pouring, and in-
cessantly decanting the people of the one into the pre-
cincts of the other, and making of the three but one.
One of these two streets led from the Porte Saint-Jacques
to the Porte Saint-Martin; it was known as Rue Saint-
Jacques in the University, Rue de la Juiverie in the City,
Rue Saint-Martin in the Town; it crossed the water
twice under the name of the Petit-Pont and the Pont
ISTotre-Dame. The other, known as Rue de la Harpe on
tlie left hank of the river, Rue de la Barillerie on the
island, Rue Saint-Denis on the right hank, Pont Saint-
Michel over one arm of the Seine, Pont au Change
over the other, ran from the Porte Saint-Michel in the
University to the Porte Saint-Denis in the Town. And

182

NOTRE-DAME.

yet, under ail these various names, they were still the
same two streets, the two parent streets, the two original

A BIED^S-EYE VIEW OF PABIS.

188

whole capital, the University and Town had each its in-
dividual street, traversing its length, parallel to the Seine,
and crossing the two arterial streets at right angles. Thus,
ill the Town, one could go in a straight line from the Porte
Saint- Antoine to the Porte Saint-Honord; in the University,
ffmii the Porte Saint-Victor to the Porte Saint-Germain.
These two great roads, crossing the two first mentioned,
made the canvas upon which was wrought the knotted and
tangled Dcedalian web of the streets of Paris. By careful
study of the unintelligible design of this network, one might
also distinguish — like two sheaves of wheat stretching,
one into the University, the other into the Town — two
bunches of great streets leading from the bridges to the
gates. Something of this geometric plan still exists.

We shall now attempt to give some idea of the general
view seen from the top of the towers of hTotre-Dame.

To the spectator who reached this pinnacle in a breath-
less condition, all w^'as at first a dazzling sea of roofs,
chimneys, streets, bridges, squares, spires, and steeples.
Everything burst upon his vision at once, — the carved
gable, the steep roof, the turret hanging from the angles
of the walls, the eleventh-century stone pyramid, the fif-
teenth-century slate obelisk, the round bare tower of the
donjou-keep, the square elaborately- wrought tower of the
church, the great, the small, the massive, and the light.
The eye wandered for a time, plunging deep down into
this labyrinth, where there w^as no one thing destitute of
originality, purpose, genius, and beauty, nothing uninspired
by art, from the tiniest house with carved and painted
front, outside timbers, surbased door, and overhanging

184

NOTRE-DAME.

stories, to the royal Louvre, which then had a coloimade of
towers. But the principal masses to be seen when the
eye became wonted to this medley of buildings were as
follows : —

Birst, the City. The island of the City, as says Sauval,
who, in spite of his nonsense, sometimes hits upon a happy
phrase, — “ the island of the City is shaped like a huge ship
buried in the mud and stranded in the current towards the
middle of the Seine.” We have just explained that in
the fifteenth century this ship was moored to the shores of
the stream by five bridges. This likeness to a vessel also
struck the heraldic scribes ; for it is thence, and not from
the Norman siege, say Bavyn and Pasquier, that the ship
blazoned on the ancient shield of Paris is taken. To him
who can decipher it, the science of heraldry is another
algebra, the science of heraldry is a language. The whole
history of the second half of the Middle Ages is written
out in heraldry, as is the history of the first half in the
•symbolism of the Eoman Church. The hieroglyphs of
feudalism follow those of theocracy.

The City, then, first fell upon the eye with its stern to
the east and its prow to the west. Facing the prow, the
spectator saw a countless collection of ancient roofs, above
which rose, broad and round, the leaden bolster of the
Sainte-Chapelle, like an elephant's hack laden with its
tower. Only in this case the tower was the most daring,
the most daintily wrought, the most delicately carved spire
that ever gave glimpses of the sky through its lace-like
cone. In front of Notre-Dame, close at hand, three streets
emptied into the space in front of the cathedral, — a beauti-

A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OE PARIS.

186 '

M square lined with old houses. Over the southern side
of this square hung the wrinkled and frowning front of
the Hospital, or Hotel-Dieu, and its roof, which seemed
covered with warts and pimples. Then to the left, to the
right, to the east, to the west, throughout the City limits,
narrow as they were, rose the steeples of its one-and-twenty
churches of every age, of every form and every size, from
the low, worm-eaten Roman campanile of Saint-Denis du
Pas (career Glaucini) to tlie slender spires of Saint-Pierre
aux Bauifs and Saint-Landry. Behind ISTotre-Dame were
revealed, on the north, the cloisters with their Gothic gal-
leries ; on the south, the semi-Roman palace of the bishop ;
on the east, the borders of the Terrain, a i>lot of waste
land. Amid this accumulation of houses, by the tall
mitres made of openwork stone, which crowned the highest
windows of the palace, then placed even in the very roof,
the eye could also distinguish the hotel given by the town
in the reign of Charles VI. to Juvenal des Ursins ; a little
farther away, the tarred booths of the Palus Market ; else-
where, again, the new chancel of Saint-Germain le Vieux,
pieced out in 1458 with a bit of the Rue aux Febves ; and
then, at intervals, a square crowded with people ; a pillory
set up at some street corner ; a fine fragment of the pave-
ment of Philip Augustus, superb flagging laid in the middle
of the road, and furrowed to prevent horses from slipping,
which was so ill replaced in the sixteenth century by the
wretched flints and pebbles known as the pavement of
the League ; ” a deserted back yard with one of those open
turret staircases which were common in the fifteenth cen-
tury, and an example of which may still be seen in the

1.86

NOTEE-DAME.

Kue des Bourdoiiiiais. Finally, to the right of the Sainte*-
(Jhapelle, towards the west, the Palace of Justice reared its
group of towers on the water’s edge. The tall trees of the
king’s gardens, which covered the western end of the City,
hid the lie du Passeur. As for the water, from the top of
the towers of Notre-Dame it was barely visible on either
side of the City : the Seine was concealed by bridges,
the bridges by houses.

And if the spectator looked beyond those bridges, the
roots of which were of a greenish tint, mouldy before
tiieir time by the damp vapors rising from the water, if he
turned to the left in the direction of the University, the
first building which attracted him was a broad, low group
of towers, the Petit-Ch^telet, whose wide-mouthed porch
swallowed up the end of the Petit-Pont ; then, if his eye
followed the shore from east to west, from the Tournelle to
the Tour de Nesle, he saw a long line of houses with carved
beams and stained-glass windows, overhanging the pave-
ment story upon story, an endless zigzag of homely gables,
often interrupted by the mouth of some street, and some-
times also by the front or the projecting corner of a huge
stone mansion, spreading out its courtyards and gardens, its
wings and its main buildings, quite at its ease amid this
mob of narrow crowded houses, like a great lord in a rabble
of rustic clowns. There were five or six of these mansions
on the quay, from the house of Lorraine, which shared the
great monastery enclosure next the Tournelle with the
Bernardines, to the family mansion of the de Nesles,
the main tower of which bounded Paris on that side, and
wliose painted roofs for three months in the year sliv-

.1 BIKD^S-EYE VIEW OE IRAKIS.

187

ered the scarlet disk of the setting sun with tliek^
"'triangles.,'"":.’ -

This side of the Seine, moreover, was the less commer-
cial of the two ; students were noisier aiid more numerous
than laborers, and, properly speaking, the quay extended
only from the Pont Saint-Michel to the Tour de Nesle.
The rest of the river- bank was now a bare beach, as be-
yond the Bernardine monastery, and then again a mass of
houses washed by the wateivas between the two bridges.

There was a vast clamor of washerwomen ; they shouted,
chattered, and sang from morning till night along the shore,
and beat the linen hard, as they do iii our day. This is
not the least part of the gayety of Paris.

The University presented a huge mass to the eye. Prom
one end to the other it was a compact and homogeneous
whole. The myriad roofs, close-set, angular, adherent,
almost all composed of the same geometrical elements,
looked from above like a crystallization of one substance.
The fantastic hollows of the streets divided this pasty of
houses into tolerably equal slices. The forty-two colleges
were distributed about quite evenly, there being some in
every quarter. The delightfully varied pinnacles of these
fine structures were the product of the same art as the
simple roofs which they crowned, being really but a multi-
plication of the squai’e or cube of the same geometrical
figure. In this way they made the sum total more intricate
without rendering it confused, and completed without
overloading the general effect. Geometry is harmony.
Certain handsome mansions here and there stood out
superbly among the picturesque garrets on the left bank

188

NOTRE-DAME.

of the river,— the Nevers house, the house of Eome, the
Klieiins house, which have all disappeared; the Hotel de
CliiiiV, still standing for the consolation of artists, and
the tower of which was so stupidly lowered some years
since. That Eoman palace near Cluny, with its beautiful
arches, was formerly the Baths of Julian. There were
also a number of abbeys of a beauty more religious, a
grandeur more severe, than the mansions, but no less
splendid, no less spacious. Those first attracting the eye
were the monastery of the Bernardines, with its three
spires; Sainte-Genevifeve, whose square tower, still stand-
ing, makes us regret the rest so much; the Sorbonne^
half college, half monastery, of which the fine nave still
remains ; the elegant quadrangular cloister of the Mathii-
rin friars ; its neighbor, the cloister of St. Benedict, within
the walls of which a theatre has been knocked up in the
interval between the seventh and eight editions of this
book ; the Franciscan abbey, with its three enormous
gables side by side ; the house of the Austin friars, whose
graceful spire was, after the Tour de Nesle, the second
lofty landmark on this side of Paris, looking westward.
The colleges, which are in iact the connecting link be-
tween the convent and the world, formed the central point
in the series of buildings betw^een secular and religious
houses, with a severity full of elegance, their sculptures
being less meaningless than those of the palaces, their
architecture not so sober as that of the monasteries. Un-
fortunately, scarcely anything is left of these monuments
in which Gothic art hit so happy a medium between rich-
ness and economy ; the churches (and they were many and

189

A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OE PARIS.

splendid in the University quarter, representing every
period of architecture, from the semicircular arches of St.
Julian to the painted arches of St. Severius) predominated
over everything else; and, like one harmony the more in
that mass of harmonies, they broke through the varied
sky-line of gables ever and anon with their sharp spires,
their open steeples, and their slender pinnacles, whose line
was but a magnificent exaggeration of the steep pitch of
the roofs.

The ground on which the University stood was hilly.
St. Genevifeve’s Mount formed a huge wen to the south-
east ; and it was a sight well worth seeing, to look down
from the top of ISTotre-Dame upon that crowd of narrow,
winding streets (now the Latin Quarter), and those close
clusters of houses which, scattered in every direction from
the summit of the height, seemed hurrying haphazard and
almost perpendicularly down its sides to the water’s edge,
some apparently falling, others climbing up again, all
clinging together for mutual support. The constant ebb
and flow of a myriad black dots crossing and recrossing
each other on the pavement lent a shimmering and indis-
tinct look to everything: these were the people seen from
a height and a distance.

Lastly, in the spaces between these roofs, these spires,
these unnumbered and irregular structures which curved
and twisted and indented the outline of the University in
so odd a fashion, might be seen at intervals a big bit of
mossy wall, a thick round tower, or an embattled city gate,
representing the fortress : this was the wall of Philip
Augustus. Beyond were the green fields, and beyond

190

NOTRE-BAME.

these rail the roads, along which stretched a few sub-
urban houses, becoming fewer in number as the distance
increased. Some of these suburbs were of considerable
importance; there was first, starting from the Tournelle,
the borough of Saint-Victor, with its single arched bridge
across the Bifevre ; its abbey, where one might read the epi-
taph of Louis the Fat, ^pitaphium Ludovici Grossi; and its
church with an octagonal steeple flanked by four eleventh-
century belfries (there is a similar one at Etampes, which
has not yet been, destroyed) ; then the borough of Saint-
Marceau, which possessed three churches and a convent ;
then, leaving the Gobelins factory and its four white walls
on the left, came the suburb of Saint- Jacques, with the
beautiful carved cross in the market-place ; the Church
of Saint-Jacques du Haut-Pas, which was then Gothic,
pointed and delightful; Saint-Magioire, with a fine four-
teenth-century nave, which Napoleon turned into a hay-
loft; Notre-Dame des Champs, where there were Byzan-
tine mosaics; lastly, leaving in the open country the
Carthusian monastery, a rich edifice of the same date as
the Palace of Justice, with its little private gardens, and
the ill-famed ruins of Vauvert, the eye fell, to the west-
ward, upon the three Roman spires of Saint-Germain des
Prds. The borougii of Saint-Germain, even then a large
parish, included fifteen or twenty streets in the rear ; the
sharp spire of Saint-Sulpice formed one of the boundaries
of the borough. Close beside it might be seen the square
enclosure of the Saint-Germain fair-ground, where the
market now stands ; then the abbot’s pillory, a pretty little
round tower neatly capped with a leaden cone ; the tile-

191

A BIKD^S-EYE yiEW OF PABIS.

kiln was farther on, as were the Eue cM Four, leading to
the town ovens, the mill on its knoll, and the hospital
for lepers, — a small isolated building shunned by all
But the thing which particulaiiy attracted and held atten-
tion was the abbey itself. It is certain that this mon-
astery which held high rank both as a church and as a
manor, this abbatial palace where the bishops of Paris
held themselves happy to be allowed to pass a night, that
refectory to which the architect had given the air, the
beauty, and the splendid rose-window of a cathedral, that
elegant Lady Chapel, that vast dormitory, those great
gardens, that portcullis, that drawbridge, the battlements
which intrenched upon the verdure of the surrounding
fields, the courtyards glittering with men-at-arms mingled
with golden copes, all grouped and combined around the
three tall spires with their semicircular arches, firmly
planted upon a Gothic chancel, made a magnificent figure
on the horizon.

When at length, after close study of the University,
the spectator tuimed towards the right bank of the river,
towards the Town, the character of the view changed
abruptly. The Town, in fact, though much larger than
the University, was less of a unity. At the first glance
it seemed to be divided into several strangely distinct
masses. First, to the east, in that part of the town whicli
still retains the name of the Marais, derived from the
marsh in wliich Caniulogenes mired Cicsar, there were a
number of palaces. The buildings extended to the water’s
edge. Four mansions so close together as to be almost
connected, the homes of the Jouy, Sens, Barbeau families,

192

J^OTRE-DAMI^..

and the Queen's residence, mirrored their slated roofs,
broken by slender turrets, in the Seine. These four build-
ings occupied the region between the Eue des NoiiaindiHTS
and the Celestine Abbey, whose spire formed a graceful
contrast to their line of battlements and gables. Certain
moss-grown structures, overhanging the water in front of
these sumptuous mansions, did not hide the fine outlines
of their facades, their broad square windows with stone
casements, their porches with pointed arches overloaded
with statues, the sharp clear-cut edges of their walls, and
all those dainty architectural accidents which make Gothic
art seem as if it began a fresh series of combinations with
every new building. Behind these palaces, stretched on
every hand, here broken, palisaded, and crenelated like a
citadel, here concealed amid tall trees like a monastery, the
vast and varied wall around that marvellous Hotel Saint-
Pol, where the king had sufficient space to lodge luxuri-
ously twenty-two princes of tlie rank of the Dauphin and
the Duke of Burgundy, with their servants and suites, to
say nothing of great lords, and the Emperor himself when
he visited Paris, and the lions, which had a separate resi-
dence in the royal establishment. Let us say liere that the
apartment of a prince at this period comprised no less than
eleven rooms, from the audience chamber to the oratory,
not to mention the galleries, baths, stove-rooms, and other
superfluous places with which eacli apartment was pro-
vided; not to mention the private gardens for each guest
of the king ; not to mention the kitchens, cellars, offices,
and general refectories of the house ; the servants' quar-
ters, where there were twenty-two offices, from the bake-

A B1RD\S~KYE VIEW OF PARIS.

193

li‘)iise to the wine-cellarB ; the games of various sorts.
inalh teiuiis, riding at the ring, etc. ; aviaries, fish-ponds,
poultry -yards, stables, cow-houses, libraries, arsenals, and
foundries. Such was a royal palace of that period, a
Louvre, a Hotel Saint-Pol, — a city within a city.

From the tower where in fancy we stand, the Hotel
Saint-Pol, almost half concealed by the four great mansions
just mentioned, was yet very vast and very wonderful to
behold. Although skilfully joined to the main building by
long glazed and columned galleries, the three residences
which Charles V. jiad added to his palace were readily to
1)0 distinguished ; the Hotel dii Petit-Muce, with the open-
work balustrade so gracefully bordering its roof ; the house
of the Abbot of St. Maur, having the aspect of a strong-
hold, a great tower, bastions, loop-holes, iron cowls, and
over the wide Saxon gateway, the abbot’s escutcheon be-
tween the two grooves for the drawbridge ; the residence
of the Count d’iCtampes, whose donjon-keep, in ruins at
the top, was round and notched like a cock’s comb ; here
and there three or four low bushy old oak-trees grew close
togetlier, looking like huge cauliflowers ; swans sported in
the clear waters of the fish-ponds, rippled with light an<l
shade ; numerous courtyards afforded picturesque glimpses ;
the Hotel des Lions, with its low pointed arches rest-
ing upon short Saxon pillars, its iron portcullises and its
never-ending roar; rising above all this, the scaly spire
of the Ave-Maria ; to the left, the house of the provost
of Paris, flanked by four delicately designed turrets ; in
the centre, in the background, the Hotel Saint-Pol itself,
properly so called, with its myriad fa(;ades, its successive

194

notEe-damk.

eml)ellisluneiits from Charles V/s day down, the hybrid
excrescences with which the, caprice of architects had
loaded it during the lapse of two centuries, with all the
chancels of its chapels, all the gables of its galleries, its
endless weathercocks, and its two tall adjacent towers,
whose conical roofs, bordered with battlements at*their
base, looked like cocked hats. .

Still climbing the various stages of this amphitheatre
of palaces rising in the distance, after crossing a deep
ravine cut through the house-roofs of the Town, whicli
marked the passage of the Eue Saint-Antoine, the eye
•fell upon tlie d’Angoulchne mansion, a vast structure built
at different periods, and containing very new and shining
portions, which harmonized with the general effect no
better than a red patch with a blue doublet. Still, the
oddly steep, high roof of the modern palace, bristling with
carved gutters, covered with sheets of lead over wdiich
rolled sparkling incrustations of gilded copper in a thou-
sand fanciful arabesques, — the curiously damascened roof
soared airily and gracefully aloft in the midst of the dark
ruins of the ancient edifice, whose antique towers, bulging
like casks, ffom old age, were bowed down by the weight
of years and rent asunder from top to bottom. Behind
them rose the forest of spires of the Palace of tlie Tour-
nelles. No view in the world, not even from Chambord
or the Alhambra, could be more magical, more airy, more
enchanting than tliis wilderness of spires, steeples, chim-
neys, vanes, winding staircases, wrought lanterns whicli
looked as if struck out with a die, pavilions and spindle-
shaped turrets, or tournelles, all varying in form, lieight,

A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF PARIS.

195 :

and position. It might well he compared to a gigaidh.^
stone checker-hoard.

That group of enormous inky-hlack towers, one melting
into the other, and as it were bound together by a circular
moat; that donjon-keep more thickly pierced with loop-
holes than with windows; that drawbridge forever raised
and that portcullis forever down, to the right of the Tour-
nelles, is the Bastille. Those black muzdes peering from
the battlements, and which from this distance might pass
for gutter-spouts, are cannon.

Within gunshot, below the terrible edifice, is the Porte
Saint-Antoine, quite hidden between its two towers.

Beyond the Tournelles, as fiir as the wall of Charles V,,
stretched an expanse of beds of shrubs and flowers, and
velvety lawns, the royal parks, amidst which the Danlalus
garden, given by Louis XT. to Coictier, was easily to be
distinguished l)y its labyrinth of trees and winding walks.
The doctor’s laboratory rose from the maze like a great soli-
tary column with a tiny house for capital. In this small
dwelling dread predictions of astrology were concocted.

The Place Eoyale now stands upon this spot.

As we have just observed, the region of the Palace —
some idea of wdiich we have striven to give the reader,
although alluding to its principal features only — filled
up the angle formed on the east by the Seine and tlie
boundary wall of Charles V. ' The heart of the town was
occupied by a group of common houses. There the three
bridges leading from the City discharged themselves upon
the right bank; and bridges lead to the building of houses
rather than of palaces. This connection of ordinary houses.

196

NOTRE-DAME.

crowded together like cells in a Mve, was not without a
beauty of its own. The roofs of a great city have a certain
grandeur, like the waves of the sea. In the first place, the
streets, crossed and intertangled, formed a hundred droll
figures ; around the markets, they looked like a myriad-
rayed star. The Rues Saint-Denis and Saint-Martin, with
their endless ramifications, climbed the hill side by side,
like two great trees wdth intermingling branches; and
then crooked lines, like the Rues de la PMtrerie, de la
Verrerie, de la Tixeranderie, etc., twisted and wound in
and out among the whole. There were also fine structures
piercing through tlie fixed swell of this sea of gables. At
the end of the Pont aux Changeurs, beliiiid which the Seine
foamed beneath the wheels of the Pont aux Meuniers, there
was the Ch^telet, no longer a Roman tower, as in the days
of Julian the Apostate, but a feudal tower of the thirteenth
century, and constructed of a stone so hard, that tliree
hours' work with the pick would not remove a piece the
size of a man's fist ; there was- the superb square hell-
tower of Saint- Jacques de la Boucherie, all its angles
softened by sculptures, even then worthy of admiration,
although it was not finished in the fifteenth century. (It
lacked particularly those four monsters wliich even yet,
perched on the corners of its roof, look like four spliinxes
giving modern Paris tlie riddle of the ancient Paris to
solve. Rault the sculptor put them up in 1526, and he
was paid only twenty francs for his pains 1 ) There was
the Pillar House, opening on the Grbve, of wliieh we have
already given the reader some idea; there was Saint-Ger-
vais, which a porch “in good taste" has since spoiled;

A B1RI)\S-KYK PARIS. 197

Saiut-]\lery, wliose old pointed arelies were a dose ap-
proach to the seiiiicirciilaiv; Saiiitdea whose magiiiti-
ceiit spire had passed into a proverb ; there were at least
twenty other edifices, which did not disdain to bury their
luarvels in this wilderness of deep, dark, and narrow
sti’eets. Add to this the carved stone crosses, ev'en more*
abundant at cross-roads than gibbets; the Cemetery of tiic
Inriocents, wdiose wall, a fine specimen ol* architecture, war
visible from a distance, oyer the house-tops; the markel
pillory, the top of which peeped between two chimneys in
the Iiue de la Cossonneri^; the “ladder” of the Croix- du-
Trahoir at the cross-roads, always black witli people; the
circular booths of the Corn-market; the remains of the
ancient wall of Philip Augustus, visible here and there,
lost among the houses, towers overgrown with ivy, ruined
gates, crumbling, shapeless fragments of masonry ; the
quay with its countless shops and its bloody knackers'
yards; the Seine, covered with boats, from the Fort au
Foil! to For-rEveque, — and you will have a dim idea of
what the central portion of the town was in 1482.

Together with these two quarters, — the one of princely
hiansions, the other of ordinary houses, — the third element
ill the view of the Town was a, long belt of abbeys^border-
ing almost its entire circumference from east to west, and
ibrming a second inner circle of convents and chapels
in addition to the circle of fortifications enclosing Paris.
Thus, close beside the Tournelles park, between tlie Rue
Saint-Antoine and the old Rue du Temple, there was
Sainte-Catherine with its immense grounds, bounded only
by the city walls. Between the old and the new Rue du

198

NOTRE^DAME.

Temple there was the Temijle, — a gloomy group of towers,
tall, straight, lonely in the midst of a vast battlemented
enclosure. Between the Eue Neuve du Temple and the
Eue Saint-Martin there was the Abbey of Saint-Martin,
in its gardens, a superb fortified church, whose engirdling
towers, whose coronet of spires, only yielded in strengt.h
and splendor to those of Saint-Germain des Prds. Between
the Eues Saint-Martin and Saint-Denis were the precincts
of the Convent of the Trinity. Lastly, between the Eue
Saint-Denis and the Eue Montorgueil was the Convent of
the Daughters of God. Close by might be seen the rotting
roofs and unpaved district of the Court of Miracles. This
was the only profane link in this pious chain of convents.

Lastly, the fourth division clearly outlined in the con-
glomeration of house-tops on the right hank of the river,
and occupying the western angle formed by the boundary
wall and the shore down stream, was still another cluster
of palaces and elegant residences, nestling in the shadow
of the Louvre. The old Louvre of Philip Augustus, that
overgrown structure around \vhose great tower were
grouped twenty-three towers almost as large, to say. noth-
ing of smaller turrets, seemed from a distance to be
framed in the Gothic summits of the Hotel d'AlenQon and
of the Petit-Bourbon. This hydra of towers, the giant
guardian of Paris, with its twenty-four heads always reared
aloft, with its monstrous cruppers covered with lead or
scaly with slates, all dimpling and rippling with metallic
reflections, made a surprising finish to the outline of the
Town on the west.

An immense mass, therefore, — what the Eomans called

A BIKD’S-EYE VIEW OF IRAKIS.

199

an imtila, — of plain, homely houses, flanked on either hand
by blocks of palaces, crowned, the one by the Louvre, the
other by the Tournelles, bounded on the north by a long
line of abbeys and cultivated fields, blending and mingling
together as one gazed at them ; above these countless build-
ings, whose tiled and slated roofs stood out in such strange
outlines one against the other, the crimped, twisted, orna-
mented steeples of the forty-four churches of the right bank
of the river ; myriads of crooked streets, bounded on one
side by a line of high walls with square towers (that of the
University had round towers), on the other by the Seine
intersected by bridges, and bearing along a wilderness of
boats, — such was the Town in the fifteenth century.

Outside the walls, some few suburbs crowded to the
gates ; but there were not so many houses, nor were they so
close together, as in the University quarter. There were,
behind the Bastille, some twenty huts, built close around
the Cross of Faubin wdth its curious carvings, and the Ab-
bey of Saint-Antoine des Champs with its buttresses ; then
came Popincourt, hidden in wheat-fields ; then Coiirtille, a
jolly village of taverns ; the borough of Saint-Laurent, with
its church, whose steeple at a distance seemed to be a part
of the pointed towers of the Porte Saint-Martin ; the Fau-
bourg Saint-Denis, with the vast enclosure of Saint-Ladre ;
outside the Porte Montmartre, Grange-Batelihre, sur-
rounded by white walls ; behind it, with its chalky slopes,
Montmartre, which then held almost as many churches as
windmills, and which has kept only the mills, — for soci-
ety now prefers material' to spiritual bread. Lastly, beyond
the Louvre the Faubourg Saint-Honord, even then of con-

200 *

NOTRE-.l)AME.

siOerable extent^ stretched away into the fields, and Little
Britain looked L>Teen in the distance, and the Pig-market
was plainly visible, in the midst of it the horrible caldron
for boiling alive coiners of counterfeit money. Between
Coiirtille and Saint-Laurent the eye noted, on the sum-
mit of a heiglit situated in the midst of bare plains, a soi‘t
of structure looking from a distance like a ruined colonnade
standing upon bare foundations. It was neither a Parthe-
non nor a temple to Olympian Jove; it was Montfaucou.

Now, if the list of so many buildings, brief as we have
tried to make it, has not destroyed, as fast as we con-
structed it, in tlie reader’s mind, the general outlines of
old Paris, we will sum up our description in a few words.
In the centre, the island, of the City, shaped like a huge
turtle, and protruding its bridges, scaly with tiles,- like
feet, from under its gray shell of roofs. To the left, the
close, compact, crowded, monolithic trapezium of the Uni-
versity; to the right, the vast semicircle of the Town,
where houses and gardens were much more mingled,' — the
three districts, City, University, . and Town, veined with
countless streets. In and out, through the whole, ran the
Seine, ‘'the nourishing Seine,” as Father du Breuil calls
it, obstructed with islands, bridges, and boats ; all around
an immense plain, green wdth a thousand different crops,
and sprinkled with lovely villages: to the left, Issy,
Vanvres, Vaugirard, Montrouge, Gentilly with its round
tower and its square tower, etc. ; to the right, a score of
others, from Conflans to Ville-l’^v^que ; on the horizon,
a line of hills arranged in a circle like the rim of the basin.
Finally, in the distance, to the eastward, Vincennes and

xV BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OE PARIS.

201

its seven quadrangular towers; to the south, Bieetre and
its pointed turrets ; to the north, Saint-Denis and its spire ;
to the west, Saiiit-Cloud and its donjon. Such was Paris
as seen from tiie top of the towers of N'otre-Danie by the
ravens who lived in 1482.

And yet it was of this city that Voltaire said that
before the time of Louis XIV. it posses.sed but four hand-
sf)rne public buildings'': the dome of the Sorbonne, the
Val-de-Gr^lce, the iiUKlern Louvre, and the fourth I liave
forgotten, — possibly the Luxembourg. Fortunately, Vol-
taire wrote Candide " all the same, and is still, in spite
of this criticism, of all men who have succeeded one
another in the long series of humanity, tlie one who was
most perfect master of sardonic laughter. This proves,
moreover, that (Diie may be a great genius and yet under-
stand nothing of other people’s art. Did not Aloli^re think
he honored Raphael and Michael Angelo when he called
them those Mignards of their age” ?

Let us return to Paris and the fifteenth century.

It was not only a beautiful city ; it was a uniform, con-
sistent city, an architectural and historic product of the
Aliddle Ages, a chronicle in stone. It was a city formed
of two strata only, — the bas^rd Roman and the Gothic ;
for the pure Roman stratum had long since disappeared,
except in the Baths of Julian, where it still broke tlirougli
the thick crust of the Middle Ages. As for the Celtic,
stratum, no specimen was now to be found even in the
digging of wells.

Fifty years later, when the Renaissance added to this
severe and yet varied unity the dazzling luxury of its

202

NOTRE-DAME.

fantasy and its systeiiis, its riotous wealth of Eonian
semicircular arches, Greek columns, and Gothic ibiinda-
tions, its tender and ideal sculpture, its peculiar taste for
arabesques and acanthus-leaves, its architectural paganism,
contemporary with Luther, Paris was perhaps still more
beautiful, although less harmonious to the eye and intel-
lect. But this splendid moment was of brief duration,
the iLenaissauce was not impartial ; not content with
building up, it desired to pull down : true, it needed space.
Thus Gothic Paris was complete for an instant only.
Saint-Jacques de la Bouoherie W'as scarcely finished when
the destruction of the old Louvre began.

Since then the great city has growni daily more and
more deformed. Gothic Paris, which swallowed up the
Paris of the bastard Koman period, vanished in its turn ;
but who can say what manner of Paris has replaced it ?

There is the Paris of Catherine de Medicis, at the
Tuileries;^ the Paris of Henry IL, at the Hotel-de-Ville^
or Town Hall, — two buildings still in the best taste ; the

^ It is with grief mingled with indignation that we hear that there is
a scheme for enlarging, altering, reconstructing, that is destro 3 'ing, this
beautiful palace. Modern architects are too clumsy to touch the delicate
work of the Renaissance. We still hope that they not dare attem})t
the task. Besides, the demolition of the Tuileries now', wmiild he not only
a brutal deed at wdiich ‘a drunken Vandal might w'cll blush, it w'ould be,
an act of treason. The Tuileries is not merely an artistic masterpiece of
the sixteenth ccntiuy, it is a page in the history of the nineteenth cen-
tury. This palace no longer belongs to the king, hut to the xK^o})le. X,et
us leave it as it is. The French revolution has twice mark('d its brow.
In one %ade are the bullets of August 10 ; in, the other, the bullets of
July 29. It is sacred.

A BIRD’S VIEW OF PARIS.

203

Paris of Henry IV., at the Place Eoyale, — brick fronts,
with stone corners and slated roofs, tricolored Iioiises ;
the Paris of Louis XIIL, at the Val-de-Hrace, — a squat,
dumpy style of architecture, basket-handle vaults, some-
thing corpulent about the columns, something crook-backed
about the dome ; the Paris of Louis XIV., at the Invalides, —
grand, rich, gilded, and cold ; the Paris of Louis XV., at
Saint-Sulpice, — volutes, knots of ribbon, clouds, vermicelli,
and cliiccory, all in stone ; the Paris of Louis XVI., at tlie
Pantheon, — a poor copy of St. Peter’s at Kome (the build-
ing has settled awkwardly, which has not corrected its
lines) ; the Paris of the Eepublic, at the Medical School, —
a poor bit of Greek and Eoman taste, no more like the
Coliseum or the Parthenon than the Constitution of the
year III. is like the laws of Minos; it is known in archi-
tecture as “the Messidor style;” the Paris of Xapoleon,
at the Place Vendome : this is sublime, a bronze column
made from captured cannon ; the Paris of the Eestoration,
at the E.xchange, — a very white colonnade supporting a
very smooth frieze; the whole thing is square, and 'cost
twenty million francs.

For each of tliese characteristic structures we find a
certain number of houses, similar in taste, style, and atti-
tude, scattered through different quarters of the city, and
easily to be recognized and dated by a trained observer.
Any one who has the art of seeing can trace the spirit of a
century and the physiognomy of a king even in a door-
knocker. ^ ...

Paris of the present day, therefore, has no general char-
acter of its own. It is a coll^iction of specimens of various

204

NOTRE-DAME.

ages, and the best ones have disappeared. The capital
increases in houses only, and what liouses ! xit the rate
at which l^iris moves, it will be renewed every fifty years.
Thus the historic significance of its architecture dies daily.
Monuments of art are becoming more and more rare, and
it seems as if we saw them swallowed up by degrees, lost
among the houses. Our fathers had a Paris of stone ; our
children will have a Paris of plaster.

As for the modern monuments of new Paris, w'e would
gladly forbear to speak of thein.^ This is not because
we do not admire them as they deserve. M. SoutfloPs
Sainte-Genevifeve is assuredly the best fancy cake that was
ever made of stone. The Palace of the Legion of Honor is
also a very elegant piece of confectionery. The dome of
the Corn-market is an English Jockey-cap on a large scale.
The towers of Saint-Sulpice are two big clarinets, and
that is a very good shape in its way ; the telegraph wire,
twisting and wriggling, makes a pretty diversity upon
their roof. Saint-Eoch has a doorway only comparable
in magnificence to that of the church of Saint-Thomas
d’Aquin. It has also a Calvary in high relief in a cellar,
and a sun inade of gilded wood. These are very marvel-
lous matters. The lantern in the labyrinth of the Botani-
cal Garden, too, is very ingenious. As for the Exchange,
which has a Greek colonnade, Eoman semicircular arches
over its doors and windows, and a great elliptic vault of the
period of the Eenaissance, it is undoubtedly a very correct
and very pure piece of architecture : the proof being, tliat
it is crowned with, an attic such as Athens never saw, —
a beautiful straight line gracefully broken here and there

A BIRD^S-ETE VIEW OF PARIS. 205

hy chimnej~pots. Let us add, that if it be tlie rule that
the architectural design of a building should be adapted to
its purpose, so that this purpose shall be self-evident from
one look at the edifice, we cannot too in uch wonder at a
public building which might be indifferently a royal
palace, a House of Commons, a towm-liall, a college, a
riding-scliool, a warehouse, a court-house, a museum, a
barrack, a tomb, a temple, or a theatre. And, after all, it
is an Exchange! Moreover, a building should be appro-
priate to the climate. This is evidently built for our cold
and rainy sky. It has a roof almost as flat as if it were in
the Orient, so that in winter, when it snows, the roof can
be swept ; and it is evident that roofs were made to be
swept. As for that purpose to which we alluded just
now, it fulfils it marvellously well ; it is an Exchange in
France, as it would have been a temple in (3rreece, True,
the architect took great pains to hide the face of the
clock, which would have destroyed the purity of the fine
lines of the front ; but, to make amends for this, there is
that colonnade which runs round tlie building, and under
which, on high holidays or religious festivals, the theories
of stock-brokers and jobbers may be solemnly unfolded.

These are doubtless very superb structures. Add any
niunber of fine streets, entertaining and diversified like the
Rue de Eivoli, and I am not without hope that Paris, seen
from a balloon, may yet present that richness of outline,
that wealth of detail, that diversity of aspect, tliat union of
the grandiose and simple, of the unexpected and the beau-
tiful, which characterize a checker-board.

Nevertheless, admirable as Paris of the present day may

NOTRK-DAMK.

20I-;

seem to you, recall Paris of tlie fifteeiitli century ; recon-
struct it in iniagiDatioD ; gaze at tlie sky tliroiigli tliat
amazing thicket of spires, steeples, and towers; let tlie
Seine flow tlirougii the centre of the vast city, interrupt
its course with islands, let it curve around tlie arches of its
bridges in broad pools of green and yellow more variable
than a serpent’s skin ; draw distinctly on tlie blue liorizon
the Gothic profile of old Paris ; let its outlines shimmer in
tlie fog which clings about its many chimneys ; drown it
in profound darkness, and watch the strange play of lights
and shadows in this gloomy labyrinth of buildings ; throw
a moonbeam upon it which shall reveal it dimly and lift
the great heads of the towers above the fog ; or recall that
dark picture, light up the myriad sharp angles of spire
and gable as they lurk in the .shadow, and make them all
stand out, more indented than a shark’s jaw, against the
coppery sunset sky, — and then compare the two.

And if you would receive an impression from the old
city which the modern one can never give you, climb,
some holiday morniug, say at sunrise on Easter or Whit-
Suuday, — climb to some high point whence you overlook
the whole town, ana listen to the call of the chimes. See,
at a signal from the sky, — for it is the sun that gives it, —
those countless churches quiver simultaneously. At first
a scattered tolling passes from church to church, as wheu
musicians give notice that tliey are about to begin. Tlien,
all at once, see, — for at certain moments it seems as if the
ear had also its vision, — see as -it were a column of sound,
a vapor of harmony rise at one and the same moment from
every tower. At first the vibrations of eaeli Ixfil ascend

A BIKD’S-EYE VIEW OJf IRAKIS.

207

straight, pure, and as it were apart from the rest, into the
clear inoniing. sky ; then, little by little, as tliey iiicrease,
they melt into one another, are blended, united, and com-
bined into one magnificent harmony. It ceases to be any-
thing but a mass of sonorous vibrations incessantly set
loose from countless spires, floating, undulating, bounding,
whirling over the city, and prolonging the dealcmrig circle
of its oscillations far beyond the horizon. Yet that sea of
harmonies is not a chaos. Deep and wide as it may be, it
has not lost its transparency ; you may see each group of
notes, as it escapes from the several chimes of bells, take,
its own meandering course. You may follow the dialogue,
by turns solemn and shrill, between the small bell and the
big bell; you may see the octaves bound Itoih spire to
spire ; you watch them spring winged, light, and sibilant
from the silver bell, fall maimed and halting from the
wooden l^ell ; you admire in their midst the rich gamut per-
petually riuniiiig up and down the seven bells of Saint-
Eustache ; you behold quick, clear notes dart through the
whole ill tliree or four luminous zigzags, and then vanish
like lightning flashes. Yonder is the Abbey of Saint*
Martin, shrill an cf cracked of voice ; Iiere is the surly, omi-
nous voice of the Bastille ; at the other end the great to\ver
(jf the Louvre, witli its counter-tenor. The royal peal of
the Palace flings resplendent trills on every hand, witliout
a pause ; and upon them fall at regular intervals dull
strokes from the belfry of Notre-Dame, which strike sparks
from them as the hammer from the anvil. At intervals
you see passing tones of every form, coming from tlie triple
peal of Saint-Germain des Prds. , Then again from time to

208

NOTRE--DAME.

time this mass of sublime sounds half opens and makes
way for the strctto of the Ave-Maria, wliich twinkles and
flashes like a starry plume. Below, in the very heart of
the harmony, you vaguely catch the inner music of the
churches as it escapes through the vibrating pores of their
vaulted roofs. Certainly, this is an opera worth hearing.
Usually, the noise which rises up from Paris by day is the
talking of the city; by night, it is the breathing of the
city ; but this, — this is the singing of tlie city. Hearken

then to this of

't four forests

ranged uj>on the

hills in the horizon like huge organ-cases; drown, as in
a derai-tint, all that would otherwise be too harsh and
shrill in the central chime, — and then say if you know of
anything on earth richer, more joyous, more mellow, more
enchanting than this tumult of bells and chimes ; than
this furnace of music ; than these ten thousand brazen
voices singing together through stone flutes three Imndred
feet in length ; than this city which is but an orclu^stra ;
than, this symphony which roars like a tempest.

KIND SOULS.

I T was some sixteen years previous to the date ot this
story, on a fine morning of the first Sunday after
Easter, known in France as Quasimodo Sunday, that a
living creature was laid, after mass, in the Church of Notre-
Dame, upon the bedstead fixed in the square outside, to

H

210

NOTRE-DAME.

the left of the entrance, opposite that great image ” oi'
Saint Christopher, which the carven stone figure of Mastei’
Antoine des Essarts, knight, had contemplated on his knees
until the year 1413, when it was thought proper to pull
down both saint and believer. Upon this bed it was
customary to expose foundlings to public charity. Who-
ever chose to take them did so. In front of the bedstead
was a copper basin for alms.

Tlie sort of living creature lying on the board upon this
Sunday morning, in the year of our Lord 1467, seemed to
excite in a high degree the curiosity of the somewhat
numerous group of people who had gathered around the
bed This group was largely composed of members of the
fair sex. They were almost all old women.

In the foremost rank, and bending over the bed, \vere
four who by their gray hoods and gowns seemed to belong
to some religious community. I know no reason why
history should not hand down to posterity the names of
these four discreet and venerable dames, They were Agnhs
la Herme, Jehanne de la Tarme, Henriette la Gaiiltifere,
and Gaiichbre la Violette, ail four widows, all four good
women from the Etienne Haudry Chapel, who bad come
out for the day, by their superior’s permission, and con-
formably to the statutes of Pierre d’Ailly, to hear the
sermon.

However, if these worthy Haudriettes were, for the time
being, obeying the statutes of Pierre d’Ailly, they were cer-
tainly wilfully violating those of Michel de Brache and
the Cardinal of Pisa, which so barbarously condemned
them to silence.

KIND SOULS.

211

What on earth is it, sister ? ” said Agnhs to Gauchfere,
gazing at the little foundling as it shrieked and writlied
upon its bed, terrified by so many observers.

What is the world coming to/' said J ehanne, if that
is the way the children look nowadays?'’

“ I don't know much about children/’ added Agnbs ; but
it must surely be a sin to look at this thing."

“ It 's no child, Agnbs/'

It 's a deformed monkey," remarked Gauchbre.

“ It 's a miracle," continued Henriette la Gaultibre.

''Then/' observed Agnbs/ “ it 's the third since Lajtare
Sunday; for it's not a week since we had the miracle of
tlie mocker of pilgrims divinely punished by Our Lady of
Aubervilliers, and that was the second miracle of the
month,"

" This foundling, as they call it, is a regular monster of
abomination," added Jehanne.

"He howls fit to deafen a chorister," said Gauchbre.
" Will you hold your tongue, you little screamer 1"

"To think that the Bishop of Eheims should send this
monstrosity to the Bishop of Paris/' went on La Gaultibre,
clasping lier hands.

" I believe,” said Agnbs la Herme, " that it 's a beast,
an animal, a cross between a Jew and a pig ; something,
in fact, which is not Christian, and should be burned or
drowned."

" I ’m sure I hope,” exclaimed La Gaultibre, " that no
one will offer to take it.”

" Oh, good gracious ! " cried Agnbs, " I pity those poor
nurses in the Foundling Hospital at the end of the lane,

21:2

NOTKE-DAME.

as you go down to the river, just next door to his lord-
ship the hisliop, if this little monster is given to them
to suckle! I’d rather nurse a vampire.”

“ Wliat a simpleton you are, poor La Herme ! ” cried
Jehaiiiie; ‘"don’t you see, sister, that this little wretcli is
at least four years old, and that he would have less a|)-
petite for your breast than for a piece of roast meat.”

In fact, ‘"the little monster” (for we ourselves should
hud it hard to describe him otherwise) was no new-born,
baby. He was a very bony and very uneasy little bundle,
tied up ill a linen bag marked with the monogram of
M, Guillaume Chartier, then Bishop of Paris, wuth a head
protruding from one end. This head was a most inissliapen
thing ; there was nothing to be seen of it but a shock of
red hair, an eye, a mouth, and teeth. The eye wept, the
mouth shrieked, and the teeth seemed only waiting a chance
to bite. The whole body kicked and struggled in the bag,
to the amazement of the crowd, which grew larger and
changed continually around it.

Dame Aloise de Gondelaurier, a rich and noble lady,
leading a pretty girl of some six years by the hand, and
trailing a long veil from the golden horn of her liead-dress,
stopped as she passed the bed, and glanced for an instant
at the miserable creature, while her lovely little daughter,
Fleur-de-Lys de Gondelaurier, arrayed in silk and velvet,
spelled out with her pretty little finger the permanent in-
scription fastened to the bedstead: ""For Foundlings.”

"" Eeally,” said the lady, turning away in disgust, "" 1
thought they only put children here 1 ”

vSbe turned her back, throwing into the basin a silver

KIND SOULS.

213

coin which jingled loudly among the copper pence, and
made the four good women from the Etienne Hau dry Home
'.stare.

A moment later, the grave and learned Eobert Mistri-
colle, prothoiiotary to the king, passed with a huge missal
under one arm and his wife under the other (Damoiselle
Guillemette la Mairesse), being thus armed on eitlier liand
with his spiritual and his temporal advisers.

'' A foundling/' said he, after examination, found appar-
ently on the shores of the river Phlegethon 1"

It sees with but one eye/' remarked Damoiselle Guille-
mette there is a wart over the other."

“ That is no wart/' replied Master Eobert Mistricolle ;
that is an egg wliich holds just such another demon, who
also bears another little egg containing another demon,
and so on ad infinitum!^

“ How do you know ? " asked Guillemette la Mairesse.

I know it for very good reasons/' answered the protho-
notary.

“ Mr. Prothoiiotary," • inquired Gaucliere la Yiolette,
'' wliat do you predict from this pretended foundling

“ The greatest misfortunes/' replied Mistricolle.

'' Ah, good heavens 1 " said an old woman in the au-
ditmce ; no wonder we had such a great plague last
year, and that they say the English are going to land at
Harlleur!"

'' Perhaps it will prevent the queen from corning to
Paris ill September," added another; ‘'and trade's so bad
already !"

“ It s my opinion,” cried Jehanne de la Tarme, “that it

NOTRE-DAMB.

would be better for the people of Paris if this little
sorcerer here were laid ou a fagot rather than a board.”

“ A flue flaming fagot ! ” added the old w'oman.

“ That w'ould be more prudent,” said Mistricolle.

Por some moments a young priest had been listening
to tlie argument.s of the Haudriettes and the sententious
decrees ot the prothonotary. llis
wras a stern face, wdth a broad
■ ' brow and penetrating eye. He

' silently put aside the crowd, ex-

amined the “little sorcerer,” and
\ stretched his hand over him. It

nHHv was high time; for all the godly
women were already licking
Hj^P their lips at the thought of. the

adopt i this •child,”' .saidi-the

. He wrapped it in his cassock

and bore it aw’ay, The spectators
looked after him with frightened
eyes. A moment later he had vanished through the Porte
Rouge, which then led from the church to the cloistens.

When their first surprise was over, Jehanue de la Tarme
wliispered in La Gaultihre’s ear, —

“I always told you, sister, that tliat young scholar
Monsieur Claude Prollo w'as a wizard.”

CLAUDE FROLLO.

T NDEED, Claude Frolic was no ordinary character. He
belonged to one of -those middle-class families called
indifferently, in the impertinent language of the last cen-
tury, the better class of citizens, or petty nobility. This
family had inherited from the brothers Paclet the estate of
Tirechappe, winch was held of the Bishop of Paris, and
the twenty-one houses belonging to which had been
the subject of so many suits before the judge of the

bishop's court during the thirteenth century. As holder
of this fief, Claude Frollo was one of tlie one hundred and
forty-one lords and nobles claiming quit-rents in Paris and
its suburbs ; and his name was long to be seen inscribed,
in that capacity, between those of the Hotel cle Tan-
carville, belonging to Master Francois le Rez, and the

21G

NOTRE-DAME.

College of Tours, in the cartulary deposited for safe keep-
ing at Saint-Martin des Champs.

Claude Frollo had from early childhood been destined
by his parents to enter the ranks of the clergy. He was
taught to read in Latin ; he was trained to look down and
speak low. While still very young his father put him at
the convent School of Torchi in the University. There
he grew* up on the missal and the lexicon.

He was moreover a sad, serious, sober cbild, who loved
study and learned quickly. He never shouted at play, took
little part in the riotous frolics of the Hue dn Fouarre,
knew not what it was to dare alapas et capillos laniare’'
and had no share in the mutiny of 1463, which liistoriaiis
gravely set down as the “sixth disturbance at the Uni-
versity.’’ It seldom occuri’ed to him to tease the poor scliol-
a]‘s of Montaigu about their capotes, the little hoods from
which they took tlieir name, or the bursars of the College
of Dormans about their shaven pates, and their motley garb
of gray, blue, and violet cloth, azurini coloris et bimni,'' as
the charter of Cardinal des Quatre-Conronnes words it.

But, on the other hand, he was faithful to the great
and little schools in the Eue Saint- Jean de Beauvais.
The first scliolar to be seen by the Abbot of Saint-Pierre
de Val, as he began his lecture on canon law, was always
Claude Frollo, glued to a column in tlie Saint-Vendregesile
School, directly opposite the speaker’s chair, armed with
his inkhorn, chewing his pen, scribbling on bis threadbare
knee, and in winter blowing on his lingers to keep them
warm. The first auditor whom Master Miles dTsliers,
doctor of decretals, saw hurrying up all out of breath

217

CLxlUDE FROI.LO.

every Monday morning at the opening of the doors of tlie
Chef-Saint-Deuis School, was Claude Frollo. Accordingly,
at the age of sixteen the young scholar was quite able to
ai'gue matters of mystical theology with a lather of the
Church, of canonical theology with a father of the Councils,
and of scholastic theology with a doctor of the Sorbonne.

Theology mastered, he plunged into decretals. After
the Master of Sentences,” he fell upon the '' Capitularies
of Chaiieinagne ; ” and devoured in turn, in his appetite
for knowledge, decretal after decretal, — those of Theodoi‘e,
Bishop of Hispala ; those of Bouchard, Bishop of Worms ;
those of Yves, Bishop of Chartres ; then the decree of Gra-
tian, which followed the 'X^apitulaxdes of Cbaiiemagne ; ”
then the collection of Gregory IX* ; then the epistle Sniper
Spemla ” of Honorius III. He gained a clear idea of, he
became familiar with, that vast and bewildering period
when civil law and canon law were struggling and labor-
ing amid the chaos of the Middle Ages, — a period begin-
ning with Bishop Theodore in 618, and ending with Pope
Gregory in 1227.

Decretals digested, he turned to medicine and the liberal
arts. He studied the science of herbs, the science of salves ;
he became skilled in fevers and bruises, in wounds and
sores. Jacques d’Espars would have given him the degree
of doctor of medicine ; Eichard Hellain, that of surgeon.
He also took all the degrees in all the other arts. He
studied languages, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, — a triple
shrine then but little worshipped. His was a genuine
thirst for acquiring and treasuring the facts of science.
At eighteen, he had done with the four faculties; life

■ms

KOTRE-DAMK.

seexried to the youth to have but one purpose, — to oain
knowledge.

It was about this time that the 'excessive lieat of tlu^
summer of 1466 caused an epidemic of the plague, which
carried off more than forty thousand souls in the viscounty
of Paris, and among others, says Jehan de Troyes, “ Master
Arnoul, astrologia.n to the king, who was a very virtuous,
wise, and pleasant ‘ man.’' A rumor spread through the
University that the Hue Tirechappe was especially sub-
ject to the disease. There Claude’s parents lived, in tlie
lieart of their estate. The young scholar liastened in alarm
to the paternal mansion. On entering, lie found that his
hither and mother had died the night before. A baby
brother was still living, and lay crying in his cradle. He
was all that was left to Claude of his family. The youth
took the child in his arms and walked thoughtfully away.
Hitherto, he had lived for science only ; he now began to
live in the present. '

This catastrophe marked an epoch in his existence. An
orphan, the eldest, the head of a family at the age of nine-
teen, he was rudely recalled from scholastic dreams to ac-
tual realities. Then, moved by pity, he was hllecl with
love and devotion for this child, his brother; and a liu-
man affection was a strange sweet thing to him who Lad
loved nothing but books .before.

This affection grew to a singular degree ; in so virgin a
soul it was like a first love. Parted in infancy from his
parents, whom he scarcely knew, cloistered and as it were
immured among his books, eager to study and to learn
everything, hitherto paying exclusive attention to Jiis in-

CLAUDE FEOLLO.

219

tellect, wliich delighted in literature, the poor student luid
had no time to learn tliat he had a heart. Tiiis little
fatherless, motherless brother, this baby dropped unawares
from heaven into his arms, made a new man of him. lie
saw that tliere were other things in the world than the
speculations of the Sorbonne and the verses of Homer;
that man required affection ; that life without tenderness
and without love was only a noisy, miserable, unfeeling
machine. Only lie fancied — for lie was at the age when
illusions are still replaced by illusions only — that the ties
of family and kindred were all that was necessary, and that
a little brotlier to love was enough to fill up a whole life. .

He therefore yielded to his love for little tJehan with the
passion of a character which .was already energetic, ardent,
and concentrated. The poor frail creature, a pretty, fair-
haired,. rosy, ciirly-locked child, an orphan with none to
look to for support but another orphan, stinted him to the
very soul; and like the serious thinker that he was, he
began to meditate about Jehan with infinite compassion.
He thought and cared for him as for something very fragile
and' very precious. He was more than a brother to the
boy ; he became a mother to him.

Little Jehan was not yet weaned when he lost his
mother ; Claude put him out to nurse. Besides the estate
ol* Tirechappe, be had inherited from his father the fief of
Moulin, which was held of the square tower of Gentiily ;
it consisted of a mill upon a hill, near the Chateau de
Wiuchestre (now Bic^tre). The miller's wife was just
then nursing a fine child ; it was not far from the Uni-
versity. Claude himself carried little Jehan thither.

: 220 '

NOTRE-DAME.

HeuceFortli, feeling that he had a burden to l)ear, he
took life very soberly. The thought of his little brother
became not only the refreshment, but the object of his
studies. He resolved to devote himself wholly to the fu-
ture of one for whom he must be answerable to God, and
to have no other wife, no other child, than the happiness
and prosperity of his brother. He accordingly became
more than ever attached to his clerical calling. His
merits, his learning, his position as tlie direct vassal of
the Bishop of Paris, opened wide all the doors of the
Clnarch to him. At the age of twenty, by a special dis-
pensation from the Holy See, lie was a priest, and served
as the youngest of the chaplains of Notre-Daine at tlie
altar called, from the lateness of the mass said at it,
altare ingrormi.

There, more than ever buried in his dear books, which
he only left to make a hasty visit to the mill, this mix-
ture of wisdom and austerity, so rare at his age, soon
made him respected and admired by the cloisters. From
the convent, his reputation as a learned man spread to the
people, among whom it had been somewhat changed — a
frequent occurrence in those days — to the renown of a
sorcerer.

It was as he was returning, on Quasimodo, or Low Sun-
day, from saying the sluggards’ mass at their altar, which
was close by the gate of the choir leading into the nave,
to the right, near the image of the Virgin, that his atten-
tion was aroused by the group of old* women chattering
round the bed for foundlings.

He approached the unfortunate little being who seemed

CLAUDE EEOLLO. 221

to be so much hated and so much threateiied. Its dis-
tress, its deformity, its desei*tiou, the thought of his own
little brother, the wild dread, which at once struck him,
that if he should die his dear little Jehaii might also he
tiung upon that board to suffer, — all this rushed into his
heart at once ; a great wave of pity swept over him, and
he carried off the cliikL

When he took the child from the sack, he found it
terribly deformed indeed. The poor little imp had a wart
over his left eye, his head was buried between his shoulders,
liis spine was curved, his breastbone prominent, his legs
crooked ; but he seemed lively ; and although it was im-
possible to say in what language he babbled, his cries pro-
claimed a certain amount of health and vigor, Claude's
pity increased at the sight of so much ugliness; and he
vowed in his inmost soul that he would educate this cliild
^for love of his own
brother, so that whatever
faults little Jehan miglit
in the future commit, he
might always have to his
credit this charitable
deed done for his benefit.

It was a sort of invest-
ment of good works in
his little brother's name ;
it was part of the stock
of good deeds which he
decided to lay up for him in advance, in case the young
rascal should one day rim short: of this sort of money, —

222

NOTBB-DAME.

the ouly coin which will be accepted at the toll-gate of
Paradise.

He baptized his adopted child, and named Mm Quasi-
modo, either because he wished to mark in this way the
day upon wdiich the child was found, or because he wished
to show by this name how imperfect and incomplete the
poor little creature was. Indeed, Quasimodo, one-eyed,
humpbacked, aud knock-kneed, was hardly more than an
“ apology.”

IMMANIS PECORIS GUSTOS, IMMxiNIOE IPSE.

N OW, in 1482, Quasimodo had grown up. He had
been made, some years previous, bell-ringer of
JSTotre-Dame, thanks to his adopted father, Claude Frollo,
who had become archdeacon of Josas, thanks to his liege
lord, Sir Louis de Beaumont, who had become Bishop of
Paris in 1472, on the death of Guillaume Oliartier, thanks
to his patron Olivier Le Daim, barber to Louis XT,, king
by the grace of God.

Quasimodo, therefore, was ringer of Xotre-Darae.

In time, a peculiar bond of intimacy grew up between
the ringer and the church. Cut off forever from the world
by the double fatality of his unknown birth and liis de-
formity, confined from infancy in this doubly insuperable
circle, the poor wretch became used to seeing nothing of
the world outside the religious walls which had received

.224

NO'rRE-DAME.

him into their shadow. Notre-Dame had been to him by
turns, as he grew and developed, egg, nest, home, country,
'universe.v'. '''

And it is certain that there was a sort of mj^sterious
and pre-existing harmony between this creature and the
structure. When, still a child, he dragged himself tortu-
ously and jerkingly along beneath its gloomy arclies, he
seemed, with his human face and animal-like limbs, to be
some reptile native to tlmt damp dark pavement upon which
the Roman capitals cast so many grotesque shadows.

Later on, the first time that he mechanically grasped
the bell-rope in the tower, and clung to it, and set tlie bell ^
ringing, he seemed to Claude, his adopted father, like a
child whose tongue is loosed, and who begins to talk.

It was thus, little by little, growing ever after the pat-
tern of the cathedral, living there, sleeping there, seldom
leaving its precincts, forever subject to its mysterious
influence, he came to look like it, to be imbedded in it, to
form, as it were, an integral part of it. His sharp angles
(if w^e may be pardoned the simile) fitted into the re-enter-
ing angles of the building, and he seemed not only to
inhabit it, but to be its natural tenant. He might almost
be said to have assumed its form, as the snail assumes the
form of its shell. It was his dwelling, his hole, his wrap-
per. There was so deep an instinct of sympathy between
him and the old church, there were so many magnetic
affinities between them, that he in some sort clung to it,
as the tortoise to its shell The rugged cathedral was his
shell

It is useless to %varn tlie reader not to take literally the

IMMAXIS rECX)RIS CUSTOS, IM 225

tigures of speech which we are forced to use here to ex-
press this singular, symuietri cal, direct, almost consiibstan-
tial luiioii of a man and an edifice. It is also useless to
speak of the degree of familiarity witli the whole cathedral
which he had acquired during so long and intimate a
cohabitation. This dwelling was his own. It contained
no deeps which Quasimodo had not penetrated, no heights
which he had not scaled. He often climbed the facade
several stories high by the mere aid of projecting bits of
sculpture. The towers upon the outer face of which he was
frequently seen crawling like a lizard gliding over a per-
pendicular wall — those twin giants, so lofty, so threaten-
ing, so terrible — had no vertigoes, no terrors, no giddiness
for ' him. They were so docile to his hand, so easily
climbe*.!, that he might be said to have tamed them. By
dint of jumping, clambering, sporting amid the abysses of
the huge cathedral, he had become, as it were, a monkey
and a goat, like the Calabrian child who swims before he
walks, and plays with the sea while but an infant.

Moreover, not only his body but also his sjDirit seemed
to be moulded by the cathedral. What was the state of
that soul ? What bent had it assumed, what form had it
taken under its knotty covering in this wild life ? It
would be hard to tell. Quasimodo was born blind of one
eye, luimpbacked, lame. It was only by great patience
and great painstaking that Claude Frolic had succeeded in
teaching him to speak. But a fatality followed the poor
foundling. Bell-ringer of Notre-Dame at the age of four-
teen, a new infirmity soon put the finishing touch to his
misfortunes;- the bells had broken the drum of Ms ears:

226

NOTBE-DAME.

he became deaf. The only avenue which ^Tatiire had left
liim open to the world was suddenly closed forever.

Ill closing, it shut off the only ray of joy and light
which still reached Quasimodo’s soul. That soul relapsed
into utter darkness. The miserable lad’s melancholy be-
came as complete and as hopeless as his deformity. Add
to this that his deafness made him in some sort dumb;
tor, that he might not be an object of laughter to otliers,
from the moment that he realized his deafness he firmly
resolved to observe a silence which he scarcely ever broke
save when alone. Of his own free will he bound that
tongue which Claude Frollo had worked so hard to set
free. Hence it resulted that, when necessity constrained
him to speak, his tongue was stiff and awkward, like a
door w^hose hinges have rusted.

If now we strive to penetrate to Quasimodo’s soul
through this hard thick bark ; could we sound the depths
of that misshapen organism ; could we hold a torch behind
those non-transparent organs, explore the dark interior of
that opaque being, illumine its obscure corners, its ab-
surd blind alleys, and cast a strong light suddenly upon
the Psyche imprisoned at the bottom of this well, we
should doubtless find the poor thiug in some constrained
attitude, stunted and rickety, like those prisoners under
tfie leads of Venice, who grew old bent double in a stone
coffer too short and too low for them either to lie down or
to stand up.

The spirit certainly wastes away in a misshapen body.
Quasimodo barely felt within him the blind stirring of a
soul made in liis own image. His impressions of objects

IMMANIS PF.COEIS GUSTOS, IMMANIOR IPSE. 227

nnclerwent a considerable refraction before tliey readied
his mind. His brain was a peculiar medium; tlie ideas
which traversed it came forth greatly distorted. Tiie
reflection resulting from that refraction was necessarily
divergent, and deviated from the right path.

Hence endless optical illusions, endless aberrations of
opinion, endless digressions into which Iiis thoughts, some-
times foolish and sometimes idiotic, would wander.

The first effect of this unfortunate condition of things
was to disturb his views of all outward objects. He had
KScarcely any direct perception of them. The external
world seemed much farther away from him than it does
from us.

The second effect of his misfortune was to make him
mischievous.

He was mischievous because he was an untrained sav-
age ; he was a savage because he was ugly. There was a
logic in liis nature as in ours.

His strength, wonderfully developed as it was, was the
cause of still greater mischief. “ Malm jpmr robustus^’'
says Hobbes.

But we must do him the justice to say that this mis-
chievous spirit was not innate. From his first intercourse
with men he had felt, had seen himself despised, scorned,
repulsed. To him, human speech meant nothing but mock-
ery or curses. As he grew up, he encountered nothing
but hate. He caught the infection. He acquired the uni-
versal malevolence. He adopted the weapon with which
lie had been wounded.

After all, he never turned his face to the world of men

NOTliE-DAMB.

■ 228 ;

save with regret; his cathedral was enough for him. It
was peopled with marble figures, kings, saints, and bishops
who at least did not laugh at liim, and never looked upon
him otherwise than with j)eace and good-will. The other
statues, those of monsters and demons, did not hate Quasi-
modo; he looked too much like them for that. They
rather mocked at other men. The saints were his friends,
and blessed him. The monsters were his friends, and
protected him. Thus he had long conversations with
them. He would sometimes pass whole hours squatting
before one of these statues, in solitary chat with it. If
any one came by, he w^ould fly like a lover surprised in his
serenade.

And the cathedral was not only company for him, it
was the universe; nay, more, it was Nature itself. He
never dreamed that there were other hedge-rows than the
stained-glass windows in perpetual bloom ; other shade
than that of the stone foliage always budding, loaded with
birds in the thickets of Saxon capitals; other mountains
than the colossal towers of the church ; or other ocean tlian
Paris roaring at their feet.

But that which he loved more than all else in the
motherly building, that which awakened his soul and bade
it spread its poor stunted wings folded in such misery
where it dwelt in darkness, that which sometimes actually
made him happy, was the bells. He loved them, he
caressed them, he talked to them, he understood them.
From the chime in the steeple over the transept to the big
bell above the door, he had a tender feeling for them all.
The belfry of the transept and the two towers were to

IMMANIS PECORIS CUSTOS, IMMAMOR IPSE. 229

him like three great cages, in which the birdS; trained by
hini; sang for him alone ; and yet it was these very bells
which made him deaf. But mothers often love that child
best which has cost them most pain.

To be sure, their voice was the only one which he could
now hear. For tliis reason the big bell was his best be-
loved. She was his favorite of that family of noisy dam-
sels who fluttered about his head on holidays. This big
bell had been christened Marie. She hung alone in the
south tower with her sister Jacqueline, a bell of less size
enclosed in a smaller cage close beside her own. This
Jacqueline was named for the wife of Jehan Montague,
who gave the bell to the church ; which did not prevent
him from figuring at Montfaucon without a head. In the
second tower there were six other bells ; and lastly, the six
smallest dwelt in the belfry over the transept with the
wooden hell, which was only rung from the afternoon of
Maundy Thursday till the morning of Holy Saturday or
Easter Eve. Thus Quasimodo had fifteen bells in his
harem ; but big Marie was his favorite.

It is impossible to give any idea of his joy on those
days when full peals were rung. When the archdeacon
dismissed him with the word Go,” he ran up the winding
staircase more rapidly than any one else could have gone
down. He reached the aerial chamber of the big bell,
breathless ; he gazed at it an instant with love and devotion,
then spoke to it gently, and patted it, as you would a good
horse about to take a long journey. He condoled with it
on the hard work before it. After these initiatory caresses
he called to his assistants, stationed on a lower story of

230

NOTRE-DAME.

tlie tower, to begin. They then Imng upon the ropes, tlie
windlass creaked, and the enormous mass of metal moved
slowly. Quasimodo, panting with excitement, followed it
with his eye, Tiie first stroke of the clapper upon its
brazen wall made the beam on which lie stood cpiiver.
Quasimodo vibrated with the bell. '' Here we go ! There
we go!” he shouted with a mad burst of laughter. Ihit
the motion of the great hell grew faster and faster, and
as it traversed an ever-increasing space, his eye grew
bigger and bigger, more and more glittering and phos-
phorescent. At last the full peal began ; the whole tower
shook : beams, leads, broad stones, all rumbled together,
from the piles of the foundation to the trefoils at the top.
Then Quasimodo’s rapture knew no bounds : he came and
went; he trembled and shook from head to foot with
the tow^er. The bell, let loose, and frantic with liberty,
turned its jaws of bronze to either wall of the tower in
turn, — jaws from wdiich issued that whirlwind whose roar
men heard for four leagues around. Quasimodo placed
himself before those gaping jaws ; he rose and fell with the
swaying of the bell, inlialed, its tremendous breath, gazed
now at the abyss swarming with people like ants, two hun-
dred feet below him, and now at the huge copper clapper
which from second to second bellowed in bis ear. That
was the only speech which he could hear, the only sound
that broke the universal silence reigning around him. He
basked in it as a bird in the sunshine. All at once the
frenzy of tlie bell seized him ; his look became strange ; be
waited for the passing of the bell as a spider lies in wait
for a fly, and flung himself headlong upon it. Then, sus-

IMMAmS PECORIS CUSTOS, IMMANIOE IPSE. 231

pended above tiie gulf, launched upon the tremendous
vibration of the bell, he grasped the brazen monster by its
ears, clasped it witli his knees, spurred it with his heels,
doubling tbe fury of the peal with the whole force and
weight of his body. As the tower shook, lie shouted and
gnashed his teeth, his red hair stood erect, liis chest
labored like a blacksmitlfs bellows, his eye flashed fire, the
monstrous steed neighed and panted under him ; and then
the big bell of .N'otre-Dame and Quasimodo ceased to ex-
ist: they became a dream, a whirlwind, a tempest; vertigo
astride of uproar ; a spirit clinging to a winged crupper ;
a strange centaur, half man, half bell; a sort of horrid
Astolpho, borne aloft by a prodigious hippogrift* of living
bronze.

The presence of this extraordinary being pervaded the
whole cathedral with a peculiar breath of life. It seemed,
at least in tlie opinion of the grossly superstitious mob,
as if mysterious emanations issued from him, animating
every stone in Notre-Darne and making the very entrails
of the old church throb and palpitate. His mere presence
there was enough to lead the vulgar to fancy that the
countless statues in the galleries and over the doors moved
and breathed. And in very truth the catliedral seemed a
creature docile and obedient to his hand : it awaited his
pleasure to lift up its mighty voice ; it was possessed and
filled with Quasimodo as with a familiar spirit. He might
be said to make the vast edifice breathe. He was indeed
omnipresent in it, he multiplied himself at every point of
the structure. Sometimes the terrified spectator saw an
odd dwarf on the extreme pinnacle of one of the towers,

NOTEE-DAME.

— 'O-j

climbing, creeping, writhing, crawling on all fours, de-
scending head-first into the abyss, leaping fimi one pro-
jection to another, and diving deep into tJie some

sculptured gorgon : it was Quasimodo hunting for daws'
nests. Sometimes a visitor stumbled over a sort of living

nightmare, crouching and scowling in a dark corner of the
cliurch : it was Quasimodo a-bsorbed in thought. Soine-
tiiiies an enormous head and a bundle of ill-adjusted limbs
might be seen swaying frantically to and fro from a rope’s
end under a belfry: it was Quasimodo ringing tlie Ves-
pers or the Angelas. Often by night a hideous forju was

IMMANIS PECOKIS GUSTOS/ IMM AN lOR IPSE. 233

seen wandering alSng the frail delicately-wroaght railing
which crowns the towers and runs round the top of the
chancel : it was still the hunchback of Notre-lJame.
Then, so the neighbors said, the whole church took on a
fantastic, supernatural, horrible air, — eyes and mouths
opened wide here and there; the dogs and dragons and
griffins of stone which watch day and iiiglit, with out-
stretched necks and gaping jaws, around the monstrous
cathedral, barked loudly. And if it were a Christmas
night, while the big bell, which seemed uttering its
death-rattle, called the faithful to attend the solemn mid-
night mass, the gloomy fagade assumed such an aspect
that it seemed as if the great door were devouring the
crowd while the rose-window looked on. And all this
was due to Quasimodo, Egypt would have taken him for
the god of the temple ; the Middle Ages held him to be its
demon : he was its soul.

So much so that to those who know that Quasimodo
once existed, Notre-Dame is now deserted, inanimate, dead.
They feel that something has gone from it. That immense
body is empty; it is a skeleton; the spirit has left it, the
abode remains, and that is all. It is like a skull ; the
sockets of the eyes are still there, but sight is gone.

THE DOG AND HTS MASTER,

T here was, however, one human being whonj Quasi-
modo excepted from his malice and hatred of man-
kind in general, and whom he loved as much, perhaps
more than his cathedral: this was Claude Frollo.

This was very natural. Claude Frollo had taken him,
adopted him, fed him, brought him up. While still a
child, it was between Claude Frollo’vS legs that he found
shelter when dogs and boys barked at him and tormented
Mm. Claude Frollo taught him to speak, to read, and to
irrite. Claude Frollo even made him bell-ringer. Now,

THE DOG AND HIS MASTER. 235

to give the big bell in marriage to Quasimodo was like
giving Juliet to Eomeo.

Therefore Quasimodo’s gratitude was profound, passion-
ate, bouiidless ; and although the face of his adopted father
was often clouded and severe, although his speech was
usually brief, liarsh, and imperative, this gratitude never
for an instant failed him. In Quasimodo the archdeacon
liad the most submissive of slaves, the most docile of
servants, the most watchful of guardians. When the poor
^ bell-ringer became deaf, the two contrived a language of
signs, mysterious and incomprehensible to every one else.
Thus the ai'chdeacon was the only human being with
whom Quasimodo kept up any communication. He had
relations with but two things in the world, — Hotre-Dame
and Claude Trollo.

There is nothing to which we can compare the arch-
deacon’s empire over the ringer or the ringer’s devotion to
the archdeacon. One sign from Claude, and the idea that
it would please him, would have been enough for Quasi-
modo to hurl himself from the top of the cathedral tow-
ers. It was wonderful to see so ‘much physical strength
brought to such rare development in Quasimodo, and
blindly placed by him at the disposal of another. This
was doubtless partly due to filial love, domestic affectiou ;
it was also due to the fascination exercised by one mind
upon anotlieiv It was a poor, clumsy, awkward nature,
with bowed head and suppliant eyes, before i^rofound
and lofty, superior and all-powerful intellect. Lastly,
and above all, it was gratitude, — gratitude so pushed
to .its extremest limits that we know of nothing to

236

NOTRK-J>x\ME.

wliich it may be compared. This virtue is not one of
those which are to be found in the finest examples
among men. Let us say tlierefore that Quasimodo loved
the archdeacon as no dog, no horse, no elepfliant ever
loved its master.

MORE ABOUT CLAUDE FROLLO,

I N 1482 Quasimodo was about twenty years old, Claude
Trollo about tbirty-six. The one bad grown up, the
other had grown old. ,

Claude Frollo was no longer the simple scholar of the
Oolleue of Torchi, the tender protectoT of a little child,

■ii

2oS KOTBEl-BAMEI.

the dreamy young philosopher who knew many things and
was ignorant of many more. He was now an austere,
grave, morose priest; a keeper of other men’s consciences;
the archdeacon of Josas, second acolyte to the bishop,
having charge of the two deaneries of Mon tlhdry and Cha-
teaiifort, and one hundred and seventy-four of tlie rural
clergy. He was a gloomy and awe-inspiring personage,
before whom choir- boys in alb and petticoat, the precen-
tors, tlie monks of St. Augustine, and those clerks who
officiated at the early service at Notre-Dame, trembled
when he passed slowly by beneath the lofty arches of tlie
choir, majestic, pensive, with folded arms, and head so bent
upon his bosom that nothing of his face could he seen but
the high bald forehead.

Now, Don Claude Frollo had not given up either science
or the education of his young brother, — those two occupa-
tions of his life. But time had imparted a slight bitterness
to these things once so sweet. ‘^The best bacon in the
world,” says Paul Diacre, ''grows rancid at last.” Little
Jehan Frollo, surnamed " du Moulin,” from the place where
he was put to nurse, had not grown up in the patli in
which Claude would fain have led liim. The big brother ex-
pected him to be a pious, docile, studious, lionorahle pupil.
Now tlie little brother, like those young trees whicli foil the
gardener’s every eflbrt, and turn obstinately towards the sun
and air, — the little brother only grew and flourished, only
put fortli fine leafy and luxuriant branches, in the direction
of idleness, ignorance, and debauchery. He was a perfect
imp, utterly lawless, which made Don Claude frown ; but
very shrewd and witty, which made the big brother smile.

MORE ABOUT CLAUDE FROLLO.

Cliiiide bad confided iiini to that same College of Torchi
wliere he had passed his own eaviy years in study and
meditation ; and it cost him many a pang tliat this sanc-
tuary once so edified by the name of Frollo should now be
scandalized by it. lie sometimes read Jeliau veiy long
and very severe lectures on this text, ])nt the latter bore
them without wincing. After all, the young scamp laid a
good heart, as every comedy shows us is always the
case. But the lecture over, he resumed his riotous ways
witli perfect tranquillity. Now, it was a yellow beak
(as new-comers at the University were called) whom he
mauled for his entrance fee, — a precious tradition whicli
has been carefully handed down to the present day.
Now, he headed a band of students who had fallen upon
some tavern in classic style, quasi classieo excitati, then
beaten the landlord '' with offensive cudgels,'’ and merrily
sacked tiie liouse, even to staving in the casks of wine in
the cellar; and then it was a. fine report in Latin whicli
the sub-monitor of Torclii brought ruefully to l)ou Claude,
with this melancholy marginal note: ‘'Eixcc ; qyrima caiisa
vimim 02)tiviicm q)otatmnJ' Lastly, it was reported — hor-
rible to relate of a sixteen-year-old lad — that his excesses
often took him even to the Eue de Glatigny.^

Owing to all tliis, Claude, saddened aud discouraged in
his human affections, threw himself with all the greater
ardor into the arms of Science, that lady who at least does
not laugh in your face,' and always repays you, albeit in
coin that is sometimes rather hollow, for the attentions
that you have bestowed on her. He therefore became

i Then famous for its gamhling-lionses. — Tr.

■ 24 , 0 :

NOTRE-BAME.

more and more learned, and at the same time, as a natural
consequence, more and more rigid as a priest, more and
more melancholy as a man. With each of us there are
certain parallelisms between our intellect, our morals, and
our character, which are developed continuously, and only
interrupted by great upheavals in our life;

Claude Frollo having ti’aversed in his youth almost tlie
entire circle of human knowledge, positive, external, and
legitimate, was forced, unless he stopped vM defmt arte,
to go farther afield and seek other food for the insatiate
activity of his mind. The antique symbol of the serpent
biting its own tail is especially appropriate to science. It
seemed that Claude Frollo had experienced this. Many
worthy persons affirmed that having exhausted the fas
of human knowledge, he had ventured to penetrate into
the nefas. He had, so they said, successively tasted
every apple on the tree of knowledge, and ^vhether from
hunger or disgust, had ended by biting into the forbidden
fruit. He had taken his place by turns, as our readers
have seen, at the conferences of the theologians of the
Sorbonne, the assemblies of the philosophers at the image
of Sainfc-Hilaire, at the disputes of the decretists at the im-
age of Saint-Martin, at the meetings of the doctors at the
holy- water font in FTotre-Dame, ad cupam NostrcB-Dominm.
All the permissible and approved meats which those four
great kitchens called the four faculties could prepare and
serve xip to the understanding he had devoured, and sa-
tiety had ensued before his hunger was appeased. Then
he had dug farther and deeper, beneath all tliis finite, ma-
terial, limited science; he had possibly risked his soul,

MOBE ABOUT CLAUDE l^ROLLO.

241

and had seated himself in the cavern at that mysterious
table of the alchemists, astrologers, and hermetics, headed
by Averroes, Guillaume de Paris, and Mcolas Flamel, in
the Middle Ages, and prolonged in the East, by the light
of the seven-branched candlestick, to Solomon, Pythagoras,
and Zoroaster.

At least this is what people imagined, whether rightly
or wrongly.

Certain it is that the archdeacon often visited the Ceme-
tery of the Holy Innocents, wdiere, to be sure, his father
and mother were buried, with the other victims of the pest
in 1466; but he seemed far less interested in the cross
over their grave than in the strange characters carved upon
the tomb of Mcolas Flamel and Claude Pernelle, which
stood close by.

Certain it is that he was often seen walking slowly
along the Eue des Lombards and furtively entering a
small house at the corner of the Eue des Ecrivains and the
Eue Marivault. This was the house which Nicolas Flamel
built, where he died about 1417, and -which, having re-
mained empty ever since, was now beginning to fall into
decay ; so badly had the hermetics and alchemists of every
nation injured the walls merely by writing their names
upon them. Certain of the neighbors even declared that
they had once seen, through a vent-hole, archdeacon Claude,
digging, turning over, and spading the earth in those two
cellars whose buttresses were scribbled all over with end-
less rhymes and hieroglyphics by Nicolas Flamel himself.
It was supposed that Flamel had buried the philosophers
stone in these cellars; and alchemists, for two centimes

242

NOTKE-BAME.

ijack, from Magistri down to Father Pacificus, never ceased
delving at the soil, until the house, so severely rummaged
and ransacked, ended crumbling into dust beneath their
'feet.' ■

Certain it is also that the archdeacon was seized with a
singular passion for the symbolical doorway of Notre-Dame,
that page of conjury written in stone by Bishop Giiiliaume
de Paris, who was undoubtedly damned for having added so
infernal a frontispiece to the holy poem perpetually sung
by the rest of the structure. Archdeacon Claude also passed
for leaving fathomed the mystery of the colossal figure of
Saint Christopher, and that tall enigmatical statue then
standing at the entrance to the square in front of the cathe-
dral, which people called in derision Monsieur Legris.”
But what every one might have observed, was the intermi-
nable hours which he often passed, sitting on the parapet of
this same square, gazing at the carvings of the porch, some-
times studying the foolish virgins with their lamps turned
upside down, sometimes the wise virgins with their lamps
upright ; at other times calculating the angle of vision of
the daw to the left of the porch and gazing at a mysterious
point inside the church where the philosopher’s stone must
assuredly be hidden, if it be not in the cellar of Nicolas
Flaraek It was, let us say in passing, a singular fate for
the Church of Notre-Dame at this period to he so loved, in
different degrees and with such devotion, by two beings
so dissimilar as Claude and Quasimodo. Loved by the one,
a sort of instinctive and savage half-man, for its beauty,
for its stature, for the harmonies that proceeded from its
magnificent mass ; loved by the other, a man of scholarly

MORE ABOUT CLAUDE FROLIX). 24/]

and impassioned fancy, for its significance, for its myth,
foi' its hidden meaning, foi* the sjaiibolism scattered through-
out the sculptures of its front, like the first text under the
second in a palimpsest, — in short, for the riddle wliich
it forever puts to the intellect.

Certain it is, lastly, that the archdeacon had arranged for
himself, in that one of the two towers whicli looks upon
the Grove, close beside the belfry, a very secret little cell,
where none might enter without his leave, not even the
bisliop, it was said. This cell, contrived in old times, had
been almost at the very summit of the tower, among the
daws' and ravens’ nests, by Bishop Hugh of Besancon,^
who practised sorcery there in liis time. What this cell
contained, no one knew ; but from the shore of the Ter-
rain there was often seen at night, through a small dormer-
window at the back of the tower, a strange, red, intermittent
light, appearing, disappearing, and reappearing at brief and
regular intervals, and seeming to follow the blasts of a
bellows, and to proceed rather from the flame of a fire
than from the light of a candle. In the darkness, at that
height, it produced a singular effect; and the gossips
would say : '' There ’s the archdeacon blowing again I Hell
is sparkling up there 1 ”

After all, there was no great proof of soi*cery in all this ;
but still there was so much smoke that it iniglit well be
supposed there was a fire, and the archdeacon liad ([uite a
formidable fame. And yet we must say that Egyptian arts,
necromancy, and magic, even of the whitest and most
innocent kind, had no more relentless enemy, no more

1 Hugo ri. Bisuiicio, 1326-3332.

244

NOTKE-DAMK.

pitiless accuser than liimself, before the officials of ISTotre-
iJaiue. Whether this were genuine horror, or the game
played by the robber who shouts, ‘Stop, thief! ” it did not
prevent the archdeacon from being considered by the wd.se
heads of the chapter as a soul which had ventured into
the outskirts of hell, as one lost in the dark caves of the
Cabala, — groping in the obscurity of the occult sciences.
Nov were tlie people deceived : with every one who had a
<grain of sense, Quasimodo passed for the devil, Claude
.Frollo for the sorcerer. It was plain that the bell-riiiger
was bound to serve the archdeacon for a given time, at the
end of which he would carry off his soul by way of pay-
ment. The archdeacon was therefore, in spite of the ex-
treme austerity of his life, in very bad odor with pious
people; and there was no devout nose so inexperienced
as not to smell in lum the magician.

And if, as he grew old, there were voids in his science, .
there were others in his heart. At least, so one was led
to believe on looking at that face in which his soul never
shone forth save through a dark cloud. Whence came
that broad bald brow, that head forever bowed, tliat breast
forever lieaved by sighs ? What secret thought made
his lips smile so bitterly at the very moment that his
frowning brows met like two bulls about to tussle ? Why
were Ids few remaining hairs already gray ? Wliat was
that in%vard fire which sometimes broke forth in his eye
to sucli a degree that it looked like a hole pierced in tlie
wall of a furnace ?

These signs of intense moral preoccupation had ac-
cpiired a high pitcli of intensity at the very time of this

MOKE ABOUT CLAUDE UliOttO.: ■ 245

story. More tbim once a choir-boy had taken to liis heels
ill alarm on finding him alone in the chiircli, so strange
and wild was his look. More than once, in the choir, dur-
ing divine service, his neighbor an the stalls had heard
him mingle unintelligible parentheses with the church
music. More than once the laundx’ess of the Terrain, em-
ployed ''to wash the chapter,’' had remarked, not without
terror, marks of nails and clenched fingers in the surplice
of the archdeacon of Josas.

In other respects he redoubled his severity, and had
never been more exemplary. From disposition as well
as by profession lie had always held himself aloof from
women ; he seemed now to hate them more than ever.
The mere rustle of a silk petticoat made him pull his
hood over his eyes. He was so jealous of his austerity
and reserve upon this point, that when Madame de Beau-
jeu, daughter of the king, came, in the month of Decem-
ber, 1481, to visit the convent of Notre-Dame, he gravely
opposed her entrance, reminding the bishop of that statute
in the Black Book, dated on the eve of St. Bartholomew,
1334, which forbids all access to the cloister to every
woman " whatsoever, old or young, mistress or maid.”
ITpon which the bishop was constrained to quote to him
the ordinance of the legate Odo, which excepts certain
great ladies, dliqiim magnates mulieres, qiim sine scandalo
mtari non possunt!" And the archdeacon still protested,
objecting that the legate’s decree, which went back to
1207, antedated the Black Book by one hundred and
twenty-seven years, and was consequently annulled by
it ; and Ije refused to aj)pear before the princess.

246

3SfOTRE-DAME.

It way moreover remarked that his horror of the gypsies
seemed to have increased for some time past. He had
solicited from the bishop an edict expressly forbidding the
tribe from coming to dance and play the tambourine in the
square before the cathedral ; and he had also searclied
the musty oflicial papers, to collect all cases of witches and
wizards condemned to be burned or hanged for complicity
in conjury with goats, swine, or rams.

UNPOPULARITY.

^T^HE archdeacon and the bell-ringer, as we have al-
J- ready observed, were not held in much lavor by tJie
great and little folk about the cathedral. Wlien Claude
and Quasimodo went forth together, as they frequently did,

248

NOTRE-DAItlE.

and were seen in company, the man behind the master,
traversing the cool, naiTow, shady streets about Notre-
Dame, more than one malicious speech, more than one
satirical exclamation and insulting jest, stung them as
they passed, unless Claude Frollo, as seldom happened,
walked with head erect, displaying his stern and almost
majestic brow to the abashed scoffers.

Both were in their district like the “ poets ” of whom
Pidgnier speaks ; —

“ All sorts of folks will after poets hie,

As after owls onr song-birds shriek and liy."

Now a sly brat would risk his bones for the ineffable
delight of burying a pin in Quasimodo’s hump : and now
a lovely young girl, full of fun, and bolder than need be,
would brush against the priest’s black gown, singing in his
ear the sarcastic song,—

Hide, hide, for the devil is caught.’^

Sometimes a squalid group of old women, squatting in a
row in the shade upon the steps of some porch, scolded
roundly as the archdeacon and the bell-ringer went by,
and flung 'after them with curses this encouraging greet-
ing: "Well, one of them has a soul as misshapen as the
other one’s body ! ” Or else it would be a band of stu-
dents and beetle-crushers^ playing at hop-scotch, who
jumped up in a body and hailed them in classic fashion
with some Latin whoop and hoot: '' Eia ! eia! Claudius
cum Claudo / ”

^ Slang term for foot soldiers. — Tii.

UNPOPULARITY.

:249

But usually all insults were unheeded l)y both priest
and ringer. Quasimodo was too deaf and Claude too great
a dreamer to hear all these gracious speeches.

ABBAS BEATI MAETINI

D on* CLAUDE’S renown Iiad spread ftir and wide.

It procured liim, at about the period when he
refused to see Madame de Beaiijeu, the honor of a visit
which he long remembered.

It was on a certain evening. He had just retired after
divine service to his canonic cell in the convent of Notre-
Dame. Tliis apartment, aside from a few glass phials
banished to a corner, and full of somewliat suspicious

ABBA8 BEATI MARTIN"!.

^ 251 '

powder, wliich looked vastly like gunpowder, conluined
nothing strange or mysterious. There were inscrijjtions
here and there upon the walls ; but they were merely
scientific statements, or pious extracts Itoiii well-known
authors. The archdeacon had just seated himself, by
the liglit of a three- beaked copper lamp, before a huge
chest covered with manuscripts. His elbow rested on u
wide-open book by Honorius d’Autun, '' De r-mdestina-
tionc et Itbero arhitrioy e.iid he w’as very lueditatively
turning the leaves of a printed folio which he had brought
upstairs with him, — the only product of the press wliicli
his cell contained. In the midst of his reverie there was
a knock at the door. "- Who is there ? ” cried the sage in
the gracious tone of a hungry dog disturbed while eating
his bone.

A voice answered from without : Your friend, Jacques
Coictier.” He at once opened the door.

It was indeed the king's physician, — a person of some
fifty years of age, whose harsh expression ivas only cor-
rected by a crafty look. Another man was with him.
Both wore long slate-colored robes furred with minever,
belted and clasped, with caps of the same stuff and color.
Their Iiands were hidden in their sleeves, their feet under
their gowns, their eyes beneath their bonnets.

God help me, gentlemen !" said the archdeacon, show-
ing them ill ; “ I did not expect so honorable a visit at
such an hour.’’ And while speaking in this courteous
fashion, he cast an anxious and searching glance from the
physician to his companion.

It is never too late to visit so distinguished a scholar as

NOTRE-BAME„

Don Claude Frollo de Tirechappe/’ replied Doctor Coictier,
who, being a native of Franche-Comtd, drawled all his
sentences until they dragged as majestically as the long
train of a lady’s dress.

Then began between the doctor and the archdeacon
one of those cougratulatoiy prefaces with which it was
at this period customary to precede every conversation
between learned men, and which did not hinder them
from hating each other most cordially. However, it
is just so to-day : the lips of every learned man who
compliments another scholar are like a cup of honeyed
poison.

Claude Frollo’s congratulations to Jacques Coictier dwelt
particularly on the numerous worldly advantages which
that worthy physician in the course of his much-envied
career had contrived to extract from every royal malady,—
the result of a better and surer alchemy than the search
for the philosopher’s stone.

''Truly, Doctor Coictier, I was delighted to hear of the
bishopric of your nephew, my reverend lord Pierre Versd.
Has he not been naade Bishop of Amiens ? ”

" YeSj archdeacon ; by the favor and mercy of God.^’

" Do you know that you cut a very fine figure on Christ-
mas Day, at the head of your associates of the Court of
Exchequer, Mr. President ? ”

" Vice-president, Don Claude. Hothing more, alas 1 ”
How is your superb house in the Eue Saint-Andrd des
Arcs getting on ? It ’s another Louvre. I particularly
admire the apricot-tree carved over the door, and the
pleasing pun in the motto, 'J. L'Alri Gotufy

ABBAS BEATI MARTINI.

■2:53'

Alas ! Master Claude, all that stone-work costs me
dear. I am being ruined as fast as the house grows ”

'' Pooh ! Have n’t you your revenues from the jail and
the Palace bailiwick, and the rent of all the houses,
butchers’ stalls, booths, and shops within the boundary
wall ? That ’s a fine milch-cow for you.”

“My Poissy castellany brought me in nothing this
year.”

“But your toll-gates at Triel, Saint-James, and Saint-
Germain-en-Laye are still good.”

“A hundred and twenty pounds, and not even Paris
pounds at that.”

“ But you have your place as Councillor to the King.
That ’s a permanent thing.”

“ Yes, Brother Claude ; but that confounded manor of
Poligny, which people make such a talk about, does n’t
bring me in sixty crowns, take it one year with another.”

In the compliments x>aid to Jacques Coictier by Don
Claude there was tlie sarcastic, sour, slightly mocking tone,
the cruel, acid smile of an unfortunate and superior per-
son sporting for a moment, by way of amusement, with
the fat prosperity of a vulgar fellow. The other did not
observe this.

“ By my soul,” said Claude at last, pressing his hand,
“ I am glad to see you in such robust health 1 ”

“ Thank you, Master Claude.”

“ By the way,” cried Don Claude, “ how goes it with
your royal patient ? ”

“He does not pay his doctor enough,” answered the
.pliysician, casting a side glance at his comrade.

'254

NOTRE-DAME.

Do you think so, friend Coictier ? ” said his comrade.

These words, uttered in tones of surprise and reproach,
drew the archdeacon’s attention to the stranger, although,
to tell the truth, he had not been wholly unobservant of
him for a single instant since he had crossed his threshold.
Had there not been a thousand reasons for his conciliating
Doctor Jacques Coictier, the all-powerful physician of King
Louis XI., he would never have admitted him in such
company. Therefore his mien was anything but cordial
when Jacques Coictier said, —

« By the way, Don Claude, I bring you a brother worker,
who was anxious to see you, being familiar with your
fame.”

''A gentleman of science?” inquired the archdeacon,
fixing his piercing eye upon Coictier’s companion. The
stranger returned his gaze with an equally searching and
defiant look.

As well as the feeble light of the lamp allowed one to
judge, he was an elderly man of some sixty years, and
of medium height, apparently quite ill and broken. His
profile, although not at all aristocratic, was still strong and
severe; his eye flashed from beneath a very prominent
brow, like a light from the dej)ths of a cave ; and under
the fiat cap which drooped over his face, the broad fore-
head of a man of genius was visible.

He took upon himself to answer the archdeacon’s
question.

“ Ileverend sir,” he said in grave tones, “ your renown
has readied me, and I desired to consult you. I am only
a poor country gentleman, .who takes off his shoes before

ABBAS BEAT! MARTINI.

255

ventiiiiiig into the presence of learned men. You must
know my name. I am Father Toiirangeau.”

“ An odd name for a gentleman ! ” thought the arch-
deacon. Still, lie felt that he had before him a strong and
serious character. Tlie instinct of his lofty intellect led
him to guess that a spirit no less lofty lurked beneath the
furred cap of Father Tourangeau; and as he studied his
grave face, the ironical smile which the presence of Jacques
Coictier had forced to his sullen lips faded slowly, as twi-
light fades from the sky at night. He reseated liimself
silently and moodily in his great arm-chair, his elbow re-
sumed its wonted place upon the table, and his head on
his hand. After a few moments of meditation he signed
to the two visitors to be seated, and addressed Father
Tourangeau : —

‘'You came to consult me, sir; and upon what branch
of science ? ’’

" Your reverence, ’I replied Father Tourangeau, 'Mam
ill ; very ill. You are said to be a great doctor, and I
come to you for medical advice.”

" Medical advice I ” said the archdeacon, shaking his
head. He seemed communing with himself an instant,
then added : " Father Tourangeau, if that be your name,
turn your head. Y'oii will find my answer ready written
on the wall.”

Father Tourangeau obeyed, and read this inscription on
the wall above bis head : " Medicine is the daughter of
dreams. — J amblique.”

But Doctor Jacques Coictier listened to liis comrade's
question with a displeasure only increased by Don Claude's

.256

NOTRE-DAME.

answer. He bent to Father TouraDgeaiVs ear and said,
low enough not to be overheard by the archdeacon, “ I
told you he was a madman ; but you insisted on seeing
him!"

'' Because this madman may well be right, Doctor
Jacques!” reidied the stranger, in the same tone, and
with a bitter smile.

“ As you please,” answered Coictier, dryly. Then, turn-
ing to the archdeacon : You are an apt workman, Don
Claude, and you handle Hippocrates as deftly as a mon-
key does a nut. Medicine a dream, indeed 1 I doubt me
the druggists and the old masters would stone you well,
were they here. Then you deny the inliuence of philters
on the blood, of ointments on the flesh ! You deny that
everlasting pliarmacy of flowers and metals which we call
the world, made expressly for that eternal sufferer wiiom
we call man ! ”

I deny,” said Don Claude, coldly, neither drugs nor
disease. I deny the physician,”

''Then it is false,” continued Coictier, with warmth,
"that gout is an inward eruption, that a cannon-wound
may be cured by the application of a roasted mouse, that
young blood properly infused restores youth to old veins ;
it is false to say that t'wo and two make four, and that
emprostathonos follows opistathonos.”

The archdeacon quietly replied, “ There are certain things
which I regard in a certain way.”

Coictier turned red with rage.

"There, there, my good Coictier, don't be angry!” said
Father Tourangeau. " The archdeacon is our friend,”

ABBAS BEATI MABTINI.

25T

Coictier calmed liimself, muttering, —

“ After all, he ’s a madman ! ”

‘'Odxooks, Master Claude !’’ continued Father Touraii-
geau, after a pause, ''you embarrass me mightily. I had
two pieces of advice to ask of you, — one concerning my
health, the other concerning my star.”

"Sir,” responded the archdeacon, " that be your ol^ject,
you would have done as well not to waste your breatlj in
climbing my stairs. I am no believer in medicine : I am
no believer in astrology.”

" Indeed I ” said the stranger with surprise,

Coictier laughed a forced laugh.

" You see now that he’s mad,” he whispered to Father
Tourangeau. " He does n’t believe in .astrology ! ”

" How can any one imagine,” continued Don Claude,
" that every star-ray is a thread which leads to some man’s
headl”

" Pray, in what do you believe, then ? ” exclaimed Father
Tourangeau.

The archdeacon for an instant seemed uncertain, then
with a gloomy smile, which seemed* to belie his answer,
said : " Credo in JDeum!'

" Donimum nostrum^' added Father Tourangeau, making
the sign of the cross.

" Amen,'' said Coictier.

" Eeverend sir,” resumed the stranger, " I am delighted
to find you so good a Christian. But, great scholar that
you are, have you reached such a point that you no longer
believe in science ? ”

" IsTo,” said the archdeacon, seizing Father Tourangeau

258

NOTEE-DAME.

s!

by the arm, while a lightuing flash of enthusiasm kindled
his dull eye, — “no, I do not deny science. I have not

ABBAS BEATI MARTINI.

^ 25 ' 9 :^

crawled flat on my face all these years, the earth

with my nails, amid the countless mazes of the cavern,
without seeing far before me, at the end of the dark tun-
nel, a light, a. flame, something, doubtless the refieetion
of the dazzling central laboratory where sages and patient
souls have taken God by surprise.”

'' Come, then,” interrupted Tourangeaii, '' what do you
consider true and certain ? ”

Alchemy.”

Coictier cried out : '' Good God, Don Claude ! alchemy
has its good points, no doubt ; but why should you blas-
pheme against medicine and astrology ? ”

'' Your science of mankind is nought ; your science of
heaven nought 1 ” said the archdeacon, authoritatively.

“ You treat Epidaurus and Chaldea very cavalierly,” re-
plied the doctor with a sneer.

“ Hear me. Master Jacques. I speak in good faith. I am
not the king’s ifliysician, and his Majesty did not give me
the Deedalus garden as a convenient spot whence I might
study the constellations. Don’t be angry, and listen to
me. What iiew^ truth did you ever derive, — I doift say
from medicine, which is far too foolish a matter, but from
astrology ? Tell me the virtues of the vertical boustro-
phedon, the discoveries of the number Ziruph and the
number Zephirod.”

Would you deny,” said Coictier, 'Hhe sympathetic
power of the clavicle, and that tlie Cabala is derived
from it ? ”

An error, Master Jacques ! None of your formuke lead
to reality; while alchemy .has its indubitable discoveries.

260

NOTRE~DAME.

Can you contest silch results as these, — ice buried
beneath the ground for a thousand years is transformed
to rock crystal ; lead is the progenitor of all the metals,

— for gold is not a metal, gold is light ; lead requires
but ibur periods of two Iiundred years each to pass suc-
cessively from tlie state ol’ lead to the state of red arsenic,
from red arsenic to tin, from tin to silver? Are these
facts, or are they not ? But to believe in clavicles,
planets, and stars is as absurd as to believe with the natives
of far Cathay that the golden oriole turns into a mole, and
grains of wheat into inollusks of the genus Cyprma 1 ’’

''I have studied hermetics,'’ cried Coictier, ''and I
affirm —

The fiery archdeacon did not permit him to finish his
speech. "And I have studied medicine, astrology, and
hermetics. Here alone is truth [as he spoke he took
from the press a phial filled witli the powder of which we
spoke some pages back], here alone is light ! Hippocrates
is a dream ; Urania is a dream ; Hermes is a mere idea.
Gold is the sun ; to make gold, is to become God. This is
the only wisdom. I have sounded the depths of medicine
and astrology, I tell you ! They are nought, nought ! The
luiman body is a mere shadow ; the stars are shadows !

And he fell back upon his seat in a striking and impos-
ing attitude. Father Tourangeau watched him in silence.
Coictier forced himself to sneer, shrugged his shoulders
slightly, and repeated in a low voice, —

" A madman ! ”

"And,” said Tourangeau suddenly, "the splendid goal,

— have you attained that ? Have you made gold ? ”

ABBAS BEAT! MAIi'rrXi.

^■261

“ Had I iiiade it/’ replied tlie arciideacoii, proiioiiiieiiig
his words slowly, like a man who is rejecting, •• the King
of France would be called Claude, and not Louis.”

The stranger frowned.

‘‘ What do I say ? ” added Don Claude with a scornful
smile. '' What would the throne of France avail me, when
I could reconstruct the Empire of the East ? ”

'‘ Well, well!” said the stranger.

" Oh, poor fool !” muttered Coictier.

The archdeacon went on, apparently replying to his own
thoughts only : —

" But no, I still crawl ; I bruise my face and knees on
the sharp stones of the subterranean way. I see dimly ; I
do not belioid the full splendor ! I do not read ; I spell ! ”

“ And when you can read,” asked the stranger, “ shall
you make gold ? ”

“ Who can doubt it ? ” said the archdeacon.

" In tliat case, Notre-Dame knows that I am in great
need of money, and I would fain learn to read your books.
Tell me, reverend master, is your science hostile or dis-
pleasing to jSTotre-Dame ?”

To this question from the stranger Don Claude merely
answered with a quiet dignity, — ,

"Wliose archdeacon am I ?”

"True, my master. Well; will it please you to initiate
me 1 Let me spell with you.”

Claude assumed the majestic and pontifical attitude of
a Samuel.

"Old man, it needs more years than still remain to you
to undertake the journey through mysterious things. Tour

262 '

NOTRE-DAME,

head is very gray! Noiie ever leave the cavern •without
white hairs, but none enter save with dark hair. Science
is skilled in furrowing, withering, and wrinkling human
faces; it needs not that old age should bring to her faces
ready wrinkled. Yet if you long to submit yourself to dis-
cipline at your age, and to decipher the dread alphabet of
sages, come to me ; it is well : I will try what I can do. I
will not bid you, you poor old man, go visit the sepul-
chres in the Pyramids, of which ancient Herodotus speaks,
nor the brick tower of Babylon, nor the huge white mar-
ine sanctuary of the Indian temple of Eklinga. Heither I
nor you have seen the Chaldean edifices constructed after
the sacred form of Sikra, or the Temple of Solomon, which
is destroyed, or the stone doors of the tomb of the kings
of Israel, which are shattered. We will be content with
the fragments of the book of Hermes which we have at
liand. I will explain to you the statue of Saint Christopher,
the symbolism of the sower, and that of the two angels at
the door of the Sainte-Chapelle, one of whom has his
hand in a vase and the other in a cloud —

Here Jacques Coictier, who had been disconcerted by the
archdeacoifs spirited replies, recovered himself, and inter-
rupted in the triumphant tone of one wise man setting
another right : “ Erras^ amice Claudi, The symbol is not
the number. You take Orpheus for Hermes.’'

“ It is you who err,” gravely answered the archdeacon.

Daedalus is the basement ; Orpheus is the wall ; Hermes
is the building itself, — is the whole. Come when you
will,” he added, turning to Tourangeau ; '' I will show you
the particles of gold remaining in the bottom of Hicolas

ABBAS BE ATI MARTINI

263

Flainel’s crucible, and you may compare tlicin witii the gnld
of Giiiliaume de Paris. 1 will teacii you the secret virtues
of tlie Greek word ^ iKTuter a" But tirst of all, you must
read in turn the marble letters of the alphabet, the gran-
ite pages of tlie book. We will go from the porch of
Bishop Guilla\ime and of Saint-Jean le llond to the
KSainte-Ohapelle, then to the house of Nicolas Flarnel in
the Eue Marivault, to liis tomb, which is in the Cemetery
of the Holy Innocents, to his two almshouses in the Bue
Montmorency. You shall read the hieroglypliics which
cover the four great iron andirons in the porch of the
Saint-Gervais Plospital, and those in tlie Hue de la Fer-
ronnerie. We will spell over together once more the fa-
cades of Saint-Come, Sainte-Genevifeve des Avdents, Saint-
Martin, Saint-Jacques cle la Boiiclierie — ”

For some time Tourangeau, intelligent though his ap-
pearance was, had seemed as if he liiiled to follow Don
Claude. He now interrupted him with the words, —
Odzooks ! What sort of books can yours be ?

Here is one of them,” said the archdeacon.

And opening the window of his cell, he pointed to the
vast Church of Notre-Dame, which, with its two towers
outlined in black against a starry sky, its stone sides and
monstrous hip-roof, seemed like some huge double-headed
sphinx crouching in the heart of the town.

The archdeacon silently gazed at the gigantic edifice ;
then with a sigh, stretching, his right hand towards the
printed book which lay open on the table, and his left band
towards Notre-Dame, with a melancholy glance from book
to church, he said, Alas. ! the one will kill the other.”

264

KOTBE-BAME.

Coietier, who had eagerly approached the book; could not
repress the words, — “ Why ! But what is there so terrible
about this : ‘ Glossa in epidolas D, Paidi. Novimhergm,
Antonins Kohurger, 1474/ This is nothing new. It is
a book by Pierre Lombard, the Master of Maxims. Is it
because it is printed ? ’’

'‘That’s it,” replied Claude, who seemed absorbed in deep
meditation, and stood with his forefinger on the folio from
the famous presses of JSTureinberg. Then he added these
mysterious wmrds : “ Alas ! alas ! Small things overcome
great ones : the Nile rat kills the crocodile, the swordfish
kills the wliale, the book will kill the building.”

The convent curfew rang just as Doctor Jacques once
more whispered in his comrade’s ear his perpetual refrain :
“ He is mad.” To which his comrade now made answer,
“ I believe he is.”

No stranger was allowed to linger in the convent at this
hour. The two visitors withdrew. '' Master,” said Father
Tourangeau as he took leave of the archdeacon, I like
scholars and great minds, and I hold you in singular es-
teem. Come to-morrow to the Palace of the Tournelles,
and ask for the Abbot of Saint-Martin de Tours.”

The archdeacon returned to his cell in amazement, real-
izing at last who this Father Tourangeau really w^as, and
calling to mind this passage from the cartulary of - Saint-
Martin de Tours: Allas leati Martini, scilicet Eex
FKABGiiB, est canonictis de consuetudine et Jialci parvam
prcelendam guam liahet sanctm Venantius et delet sedere
in sede tlusaufani!'

It is said that from this time forth the archdeacon held

ABBAS BEATI MAKTIXI.

m

freciuent meetings with Louis XL, when his Alajestv came
to Paris, and that Don Claude’s credit much eclipsed that
of Olivier Lc Dairn and Jacques Coictier, the latter of whom,
as was his wont, roundly reproached the king on this
score.

THE ONE WILL KILL THE OTHEH.

O UR fair readers will pardon us for pausing a moment
to search for the hidden meaning of those enigmati-
cal words of the archdeacon : ‘'The one will kill the other.
The book will kill the building.’'

In our opinion this thought liad two phases. In the
first place it was the thought of a priest. It was the ter-
ror of a true ecclesiastic at sight of a new agent, — printing.
It was the fear and confusion of the man of the sanctuary
at sight of Gutenberg’s light-giving press. It \vas the pul-
pit and the manuscript, the spoken Avord and the Avriiteii
Avord, takiiig fright at the printed Avord ; something similar
to the stupor of a sparrow AA^ho should see the angel Legion
spread his six million AAungs. It was the cry of tlie prophet
AA^ho already liears the busy noise and stir of humanity set
free, who sees in the future intellect undermining faith.

THE ONE WILL KILL THE 01TIE1H 2?J7

opinion superrieiUng beliefV the wotW ofl* r.he yoko

ol* lioinc; the ])resage of the philosoplier who sees liuman
ideas, volatilizeil by the press, evaporate from the theo-
cratic receiver; the dread 'of the soldier wdio examines
the iron l:)attering-ram and says : The tower must iall.
It meant tliat one power was about to succeed another
power. It meant : The press will kill the clnirch.

But underlying this idea, doubtless the lirst and
simplest, there was, to our tliinking, another and inore
recent one, a corollary of the first, less easily seen and
more ea>sily contested ; a point of view quite as philosophic,
but not that of the priest alone, tliat of the scholar and
tl)e artist as well It was the pi'esentimeiit tliat human
thought, in changing its form, would also change its mode
of expression ; that the leading idea of each generation
would no longer he written with the same material and in
the same fashion ; that the book of stone, so solid and so
enduring, must make way for the book of paper, still more
solitl and enduring. Looked at in this light, the arch-
deacon’s vague statement liad another meaning ; it meant
that one art would dethrone another art. It meant;
Printing will destroy architecture.

Indeed, from tlie beginning of things down to tlie fif-
teenth century of the Christian era inclusive, architecture
was the great book of humanity, the chief expression of
man in his various stages of development, whether as
force or as intellect.

When the memory of the earliest races became sur-
cliargeJ, when mankiners burden of recollections became
so great and so bewildering that mere speech, naked and

268 ;

winged, was in danger of losing a part on the road, men
wrote them upon the ground in the way which was at
once plainest, most enduring, and most natural. Every
tradition was sealed beneath a monument.

The first monuments were mere fragments of rock,
which the iron had not touched” says Moses. Archi-
tecture began like all writing. A stone was placed on
end, and it was a letter, and each letter was a hieroglyph,
and upon each liieroglyph rested a group of ideas, like the
capital on a column. Thus did the first races, everywhere,
at the same moment, over the entire Surface of the world.
We find the cromlech ” of the Celts in Asiatic Siberia
and in American pampas.

Later on, words were formed ; stone was added to stone,
these granite syllables were coupled together, the verb
essayed a few combinations. The Celtic dolmen and crom-
lech, the Etruscan tumulus, the Hebrew galgal, are words.
Some of them, particularly the tumulus, are proper names.
Sometimes, when there was plenty of stone and a vast
stretch of coast, a phrase was written. The immense pile
of Karnac is an entire formulary.

Finally, men made books. Traditions gave birth to
symbols, which hid them as the leaves hide the trunk of
a tree; all these symbols, in which humanity believed,
grew, multiplied, crossed one another, became more and
more complicated; the first monuments were no longer
suflicieiit to contain them ; they overflowed them on every
side ; these monuments barely sufficed to express the
prinntive tradition, as bare, as simple, and as plain as
themselves. Symbolism must needs expand into an edi-

269

THE ONE WILL' KILL THE OTIIEL.

flee/ Architecture, therelbre, was developed parallel with
|-iurnaii thought ; it became a thousand-headed, thoiisaud-
armed giantess, and fixed all that floating symbolism in
an eternal, visible, pdpable form. While Diedalus, that
i>s, force, measured; while Orpheus, which is to say, in-
tellect, sang, the column, which is a letter, the arcade,
which is a syllable, the pyramid, which is a word, set
in motion alike by a geometric and a poetic law, grouped,

combined, blended,^ rose, fell, were juxtaposed upon the
ground, placed in rows one above another in air, until
they had written, at the dictation of the universal idea
of an epoch, those marvellous books wliich were also mar-
vellous buildings, — the pagoda at Eklinga, the Egyptian
lihamseibn, the Temple of Solomon.

The original idea, the word, was not only at the base of
all these buildings, but also in their form. Solomon’s
Temple, for instance, was not merely the binding of tlie
Holy Book, it was the Holy Book itself Iji each of its
concentric halls the priests could read the Word translated
and made manifest and thus they followed its transfor-

.■2T0

NOTRE-DAME.

mations from sanctuary to sanctuary, until tliey grasped
it in its innermost tabernacle in its most concrete form,
which was again architectural, — the arch. Thus the Word
■was contained within the edifice ; but its image was upon
its exterior as the human figure is upon the case of a
mummy.

And not only the form of the structure, but the site
which was chosen for it, revealed the thought whicli it
represented. According as the symbol to be expressed
was graceful and pleasing or gloomy and severe, Greece
crowned her mountains with a temple harmonious to tlie
eye; India excavated hers, to carve within them those mis-
shapen subterranean pagodas upborne by gigantic rows of
granite elephants.

Thus, for the first six thousand years of the world's
history, froin^ the most immemorial pagoda of Hindostaii
to the Cologne Cathedral, architecture was the great writ-
ing of mankind. And this is so true, that not only every
religious symbol, but even eacli liuman thought has its
page and its monument in this vast book

All civilization begins with theocracy and ends with
democracy. Tins law of liberty succeeding to unity is
written in architecture. For, let us dwell upon tins point,
we must not suppose that the mason’s wmrk is only potent
to ])uild the temple, to express myth and priestly symbols,
to transcribe the mysterious tables of the law^ in hiero-
glyphic characters upon its pages of stone. Were it so, as
in every human society there comes a moment wdien tlie
sacred symbol is worn aw^ay and obliterated by free thought,
when the man slips away from the priest, when the ex-

THE ONE WILL KILL THE HTHEIL

271

cresceuces of pliilosophies and vSjstems eat away the fice
of religion, arcliitecture could not reproduce this new state
of the human mind; its leaves, closely written on the right
side, would be blank upon the other, its work would bo
mutilated, its book would be imperfect. But it is not so.

Let us take for example the Middle Ages, wliicli \ve see
more clearly from their being nearer to us. During its
first period, wliile theocracy was orgatiizing Europe, while
the Vatican rallied and reclassified around it the ele-
ments of a Eouie made up from the Rome which lay
crumbling about the Capitol, while Christianity was seek-
ing the various stages of society amid the rubbish-heaps
of previous civilizations, and was rebuilding from its
ruins a new hierarchic universe whose high priest was
the keystone of a vault, there was first heard springing
into place amid this chaos, then little by little seen
arising beneath the inspiration of Christianity, under
the hand of the barbarians, fragments of dead schools
of architecture, Greek and Roman, — that mysterious Ro-
man architecture, the sister of the theocratic edifices of
Egypt and India, the unalterable emblem of pure Ca-
tholicism, the unchanging hieroglyph of papal unity.
All the thought of that time, in fact, is written in this
sombre Roman style. Authority, unity, the impenetra-
ble, the absolute, Gregory VIL, are everywhere evident;
everywhere we find the priest, never the man ; everywhere
the caste, never the people. Next came the Crusades.
This was a great popular movement; and every great pop-
ular movement, whatever its cause and purpose, always
releases the sjSirit of liberty, from its final precipitate.

:272

KOTRE-DAME.

Novelties are at liand. Here begins tlie stormy period of
the Jac<iiieries, tlie Pragueries, and the Leagues. Authority
is shaken, unity is divided, .feudality insists upon shar-
ing with theocracy, until the people shall inevitably lise,
and, as usual, seize the lion’s portion : Quia noniinor Uo,
The nobility then penetrate the ranks of the priesthood,
the commonalty those of the nobility. The face of Europe
is changed. Well! tlie face of architecture is also cliauged.
Like civilization, it has turned tlie page, and the new
spirit of the times thids architecture ready to write at its
dictation. It returned from the Crusades with the pointed
arch, as the nations did with liberty. Then, wdiile Eome
was being slowly dismembered, Eoinan architecture died.
The hieroglyph forsook the cathedral, and went forth to
emblazon the donjon and lend a glory to feudalism. The
cathedral itself, that edifice once so dogmatic, henceforth
invaded by the burghers, by the Commons, by liberty,
escapes from the priest and falls into the power of the
artist. The artist builds it in his own way. Farewell
to mystery, myth, and law 1 Fancy and caprice have full
sway. If the priest have but his basilica and his altar, he
has nothing to say ; tlie four walls belong to the artist.
The architectural book no longer belongs to the priesthood,
to religion, to Eome; it is the property of the imagination,
of poetry, of the people. Hence the rapid and innumerable
changes in this style of architecture which has existed but
for three centuries, and which are so striking after the
stagnant immobility of the Eoman school, which has lived
through six or seven. But art advances with giant pace.
The genius and originality, of the people do the work for-

THE ONE WILL KILL THE OTHEH. 273

inerly assigned to the bishops. Eacli race, as it passes,
writes its line in the book; it erases the old Roman hiero-
glyphs from the frontispiece of the cathedrals, and barely
permits the dogma to peep here and there from beneath
the new symbolism overlying it. The popular drapery
scarcely permits ns to guess at tlie religious framework.
No idea can be given of the liberties then taken by archi-
tects even in regard to the Church. We find capitals
interwoven with monks and nuns in shameful attitudevS,
as in the Salle des Cheminees of the Palace of Justice at
Paris; we Jind Noalds adventures carved at full length,
as under the great porch at Bourges ; or we find a tipsy
monk, with the ears of an ass, and a glass in his hand,
laughing in the face of an entire community, as in the
lavatory of the Abbey of Bocherville. There was at this
time a license for thoughts written in stone, comparable
only to the present freedom of the press. It was the
freedom of architecture.

This liberty was carried to great lengths. " Sometimes
a doorway, a facade, an entire church, offers a symbolic
meaning absolutely foreign to religion, nay, even liostile
to the Church. Guillaume cle Paris in the thirteenth
century, Nicolas Flamel in the fifteenth, wrote such sedi-
tious pages. Saint-Jacqiies de la Boucherie was a church
of opposition tliroughout.

In those days thought was free in this direction only ; it
was therefore never written out in full except upon those
books called buildings. Accepted in the form of a build-
ing, it would have been burned in the market-place by
the executioner had any pne= been rash enough to risk it

274

NOTRE DAME.

in the raannscript form ; the thoiiglit expressed in the porch
of a church would have witnessed the torture of thie same
thought expressed in the sha.pe of a book. Thus, having

only this one way, mason-work, to Bs'll!

see the light, it bloomed forth in |®B|j

this way on every hand. .Hence the vast BShI
quantity of cathedrals which once covered kSm[
Europe, — d: number so prodigious that we Ki®i
can hardly credit it even after verifying it.

All the material and all the intellectual
forces of society tended to one and the same
end, — architecture. In this way, under
pretext of building churches to God, the
art grew to magnificent proportions.

Then, whoever was born a poet, turned architect. The
genius scattered through the masses, rej^ressed on every
baud by feudalism as beneath a carapace of iron bucklers,
finding no issue save in the direction of architecture,
emerged through that art, and its Iliad took the form of

THE ONE WILL KILL THE OTHEH.

catliedraLs. All the other arts obeyed and subiuiited to
the sway of architecture. They were the workmen who
executed the great work. The architect, the poet-, tlic
master singer, summed up in his own person the sculpture
which carved Ins hi(;ade,s, the painting which lit up his
window-panes, the music which set his bells in niotioii and
blew his organs; Even the poor poetry, properly so called,
which persisted in vegetating in manuscript, was obliged
to take some part, to enter into the structure in the
form of canticle or prose hymn, — the same part, after all,
played by the tragedies of iEschylus at the sacerdotal
feasts of Greece, by the book of Genesis in Solomon's
Temple.

So, down to the days of Gutenberg, architecture was
tlie principal, the universal writing. In this granite vol-
ume, begun by the East, continued by Greek and Eoraan
anticpiity, the Middle Ages wrote the final page. More-
over, this phenomenon of an architecture of the people tak-
ing the place of an architecture of caste and rank, which
we have observed in the Middle Ages, is reproduced with
every analogous movement of the liurnan intellect in the
other great epochs of history. Thus, to state but brielly
here a law which requires volumes for its development,
in tlie Orient, the cradle of the primitive races, after Hin-
du architecture came Ph(enician architecture, that opulent
mother of Arab architecture ; in antiquity, after Egyptian
arehitecture, of wdiich the Etruscan style and cyclopean
nionumeiits are hut one variety, came Greek arcliitecture,
whose Eoman style is but an overloaded prolongation of
the Carthaginian dome ; in modern times, after Eoman

276

NOTKE-DAME.

architecture, came Gothic architecture. And by dividing
these three series, we shall find in the three elder sisters
(Hindu architecture, Egyptian architecture, Eoinan architec-
ture), the same symbolism, that is to say, theocracy, caste,
unity, dogma, myth, God ; and in the three younger sisters
(Phrenician architecture, Greek architecture, Gothic arclii-
tecture), whatever may be the diversity of form inherent
in their nature, the meaning is always the same, — that is
to say, liberty, humanity, mankind.

Whether he be known as Brahmin, Magian, or Pope, we
are always conscious of the priest, nothing but the priest,
in Hindu, Egyptian, or Roman structures. It is not so
with the architecture of the people : their work is richer
and less saintly. In the Phoenician school, we are con-
scious of the tradesman; in the Grecian, of the repub-
lican; in the Gothic, of the bui'gher.

The general characteristics of all theocratic architecture
are immutability, a horror of progress, a retention of tradi-
tional lines, a consecration of primitive types, a constant
tendency of all human and natural forms towards the
incomprehensible capiices of symbolism. These are ob-
scure books, which only the initiated can decij)her. More-
over, in them every form, every deformity even, has a
meaning which makes it inviolable. Do not ask the
Hindu, Egyptian, or Roman edifices to change their de-
sign or correct their statues. All perfection is to them
impious. In these pieces of architecture the rigor of the
dogma seems to overlie the stone like a second petrifac-
tion. The general characteristics of popular edifices, on the
contrary, should he variety, progress, originality, opulence,

THE ONE WILL KILL THE OTHER.

perpetual motion. They are sufficiently removed from
religion to think of their beauty, to care for it, continually
to alter and improve their adornment of statues or ara-
besques. They belong to this age. They have a Iminan
quality which they perpetually mingle witli tlie divine
symbolism under whose inspiration they are still produced.
Hence ediiices pervious to every soul, every intellect, [iiid
every imagination, still symbolical, but as easy to under-
stand as Hature herself. Between theocratic architecture
and this there is the difference that there is between a
sacred language and a profane one, between hieroglyphics
and art, between Solomon and Phidias.

If we sum up what we have thus far very hastily >shown,
omitting countless minor evidences and objections, we are
led to these conclusions, — that architecture was, up to the
fifteenth century, the chief register of humanity; that
during this space of time no idea of any elaboration ap-
peared in the world without being built into masonry ;
that every popular idea as well as every religious law has
had its monument ; in fact, that the human race has never
had an important thought which it has not written in
stone. And why? It is because every tliought, whether
religious or philosophic, is interested in its own perpetua-
tion; because an idea which has stirred one generation
desires to stir others, and. to leave its trace. Now, what
a precarious immortality is that of the manuscript I How
far more solid, lasting, and enduring a book is a build-
ing! A torch and a Turk are enough to destroy the
written words; it takes a social or a terrestrial revo-
lution to destroy the constructed word. The barbarians

278

KOTRE-DAME.

]xissed over the Coliseum, the Deluge perhaps over the
Pyramids.

lii the fifteenth century everything changed.

Human thought discovered a means of perpetuation, not
only more durable and more resisting than architecture,
but also simpler and easier. Architecture was detlironed.
To the stone letters of Orpheus succeeded the leaden
letters of Guteriiberg.

“The book will destroy the building.’’

The invention of printing was the greatest event in.
history. It was the primal revolution. It was the re-
newed and renovated form of expression of humanity ; it
is human thought laying off* one form and assuming
another; it is the entire and final changing of the skin of
that symbolic serpent which ever since Adam has repre-
sented intellect.

Under the form of printing, thought is Move imperish-
able than ever; it is volatile, intangible, indestructible. It
is mingled with the air. In the day of architecture it be-
came a mountain, and took armed possession of a century
and a place, How it becomes a Hock of birds, is scattered
to the four winds, and occupies at once all points of the
liorizon and all space.

We repeat it; who does not see that in tliis wuiy it is far
more indelible than before ? IToin being solid, it has be-
come perennial. It has passed from duration to immor-
tality. A great body may he demolished, hut how can
ubiquity be rooted out ? Had a flood come, the mountain
would have disappeared beneath the waves long befu’e
the birds ceased to By above it; and if but a single ark

THE ONE WILL KILL THE' OTHEIl.

' 279 '

should float on tlie surface of the cataclysm, they \yould
rest upon it, siirvive with it, watch the going

down of the waters; and the new world which rose from
that chaos would, on awakening, behold hovering aloft,
winged and living, the thought of the* world which had
been swallowed up.

And when we see that this mode of expression is not
only the most preservative, but also the simplest, most
coiiveDient, and most practicable of all: when we con-
sider that it entails no great amount of luggage, and
recpiires no cumbrous apparatus ; when we compare r
thoiiglit obliged, in order to tra.nslate itself into an edifice,
to set in motion four or five other arts, tons of gold, a
whole mountain of stone, a whole forest of timber, a whole
nation of workmen, — when we compare this with the
thought which is made into a hook, and which needs
nothing but a little paper, a little ink, and a pen, wiry
should we wonder that the human intellect gave up archi-
tecture for printing? Cross the original bed of a vStream
by a canal dug below its level,, the stream will forsake
its bed.

So, too, see how from the time of the discovery of print-
ing architecture gradually decayed, withered, and dried
jxway. How plainly we can see the water sinking, the saj)
shying up, the thought of the time and of the people with-
drawing from it 1 The sense of chill is almost impercepti-
ble in the fifteenth century; the press was still too weak,
and could only draw off‘ somewhat of the superabundant
life of mighty architecture. -But with the dawn of the
sixteenth centmy the disease of architecture becomes ap-

280

NOTBE-DAME.

parent; it has ceased to be the essential expression of
vsociety; in distress, it becomes classic art; from being
Gallicaii, European, indigenous, it becomes Greek and
Eoman ; from being real and modern, it becomes pseudo-
antique. It is this decline which is known as the Eenais-
sauce, or revival. And yet it is a magnificent decline ; for
the old Gothic genius, that sun which is setting behind
tlie gigantic press of Mayence, for some time longer
pierces with its last rays all this hybrid heap of Latin
arcades and Corinthian columns.

■It is this setting sun which we take for the light of
dawn.

And yet, from the moment that architecture becomes
an art like any other art, that it ceases to be the sum total
of art, the supreme, the tyrant art, it loses the power to
hold the other arts. They therefore gain their liberty,
break the yoke of the architect, and go each its own way.
Each of them gains by tins divorce. Isolation enlarges
everything. Carving becomes sculpture, picture-making
becomes painting, the canon becomes music. It might be
compared to an empire torn limb from limb at the death
of its Alexander, whose provinces become kingdoms.

Hence Eaphael, Michael Angelo, Jean Goujon, Palestri-
na, — those splendors of the dazzling sixteenth century.

* At the same time with the arts, thought gained freedom
in all directions. The heresiarchs of the Middle Ages had
already made large inroads upon Catholicism. The six-
teenth century destroyed religious unity. Before the in-
vention of printing, the Eeformation would have been but
a schism ; the invention of printing made it a revolution.

THE ONE WILL KILL' THE OTHER.

,281

Take away tbe press, aBcl heresy is iiiinerved. lYIietlier
it be due to ProvideBce or to fate, Gutenberg was the pre-
cursor of Luther.

But when the sun of the Middle Ages had wholly set,
when Gothic genius had forever faded from the horizon of
art, architecture .grew daily dimmer, duller, and fainter.
The printed book, that undying worm of the great edifice,
sucked its life-blood and devoured it. It grew visibly
thinner, barer, and poorer. It was commonplace, it was
paltry, it was null. It ceased to express anythiug, even
the memory of tiie art of former ages. Eediiced to itself,
abandoned by the other arts because human thought has
abandoned it, it calls in journeymen for lack of artists ;
plain glass takes the place of painted windows; the stone-
cutter succeeds the sculptor. Farewell to all vigor, origi-
nality, life, and intellect. Architecture now crawled, like a
pitiful beggar of the studios, from copy to copy. Michael
Angelo, who had doubtless foreseen its death from the
dawn of the sixteenth century, had a last inspiration, —
the inspiration of despair. That Titan of art piled the
Pantheon upon the Parthenon, and created St. Peter's
Church at Eoine. It is a great work, which deserved to re-
main unique, the last original creation of architecture, the
signature of a colossal artist at the foot of the vast registry
of stone which it closed. Michael Angelo dead, what did
this wretched architecture do, which survived itself in a
spectral, ghost-like state ? It took St. Peter's at Eome,
copied it, and parodied it. It was mere mania. It was
pitiable. Every century had its St. Peter's ; in the seveii-
teenth century it was the Val-de-Grflce, in tlie eighteenth,

^282

NOTRE-DAME.

Siiinte-Genevieve. Every country, liad its St. Peter’s.
London had its own ; St. Petersburg had its own ; Paris
had two or three, A worthless legacy, the last unuieaning
drivel of a great art grown old and reduced to dotage
before it died!

If in place of characteristic monuments, such as those to
which we have just referred, we exa.miiie the general as-
pect of art from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries,
we observe the same phenomena of decline and decay.
From Francis IT. down, the architectural form of the edi-
tice becomes less and less apparent, the geometric form
growing more and more prominent, like the skeleton of an
emaciated invalid. The beautiful lines of art give %vay to
the cold and inexorable lines of geometry. A building
ceases to be a building : it is a polyhedron. Architecture,
however, struggles to disguise this nakedness. We have
the Greek pediment put down upon the Eomaii pediment,
and vice versa. We still have the Pantheon within the
Parthenon; we still have St Peter’s. We have the brick
houses of the reign of Henry IV. with brick corners, as
in the Place Eoyale and Place Dauphine. We have tlie
cliiirches of the reign of Louis XIII., heavy, clumsy, sur-
based, short, and broad, loaded witli a dome as .with a
hump. We have the Mazarin architecture, the wretched
Italian Pasticcio of the ''Four Xations.’’ We have the
palaces of the reign of Louis XIV., long barracks built
for courtiers, stifl-, cold, and stupid. Lastly, we have the
style of Louis XV., with its cliiccory and vermicelli, and
all the warts and fungi which disfigure that decrepit,
toothless, coquettish old architecture. From the days of

THE ONE WILL KILL THE OTHER.

'283'

Francis 11 to those of Louis XIV. tlie evil increased in
geoiaetiical ratio. Art was nothing but skin and bones-
It was dying a wretched, lingering deatli.

But what was printing doing? All the life which ar-
chitecture lost, flushed its veins. In proportion as arciii-
tectiire degenerated, printing throve and flourished. The
capital of forces, which human thought had expended in
building, it henceforth expended in books. So from the
dawn of the sixteenth ceiitury onward, the press, grown to
tlie level of the declining architecture, wrestled with it
and slew it. In the seventeenth century it was already
sutHciently supreme, sufficiently triumphant, sufficiently
sure of victory, to give the world the spectacle of a great
literary age. In the eighteenth century, after a long
interval of rest, at the court of Louis XIY., it once
more grasped the old sword of Luther, armed Voltaire
with it, and hastened tumultuously forth to attack that
ancient Europe whose architectural expression it had
already destroyed. Wlien the eighteenth century closed,
it had uprooted everything. In the nineteenth, it will
reconstruct.

Xow, we ask which of the two arts has really repre-
sented human thought for three centuries past ? Which
translates it ? Which expresses, not only its literary and
scholastic fancies, but its vast, profound, universal move-
ment '? Which constantly superposes itself, without rup-
ture or void, upon mankind, whicli moves apace, a
thousand- footed monster, — Architecture, or Printing?

Printing. Let no one be deceived : architecture is dead,
irrevocably , dead ; killed by the printed book ; killed be-

• 284 '

NOTRE-DAME.

cause il was less enduring ; killed because it was more
cosily. Every catliedral represents a tiiousand million
francs. Think, then, what a capital would be required to
rewrite the architectural book ; to make tliousands of struc-
tures once more cover the eartli as thick as ant-hills ; to
bring V>ack the days when the nuinber of monumental
works was such tliat, in the words of an eye-witness, You
would have thougiit that the world had shaken off her old
garments, to clothe lierself in a white array of churches,’'
“ eiiim nt si muncliLS, ipse excuticndo scmet, rejecta
vetustatCj ccmdidam ccclesiarwni vestem indueret,” — Glaber
Eadulphus.

A book is so soon made, costs so little, and may go so
far] Why should we be surprised that all human thought
flows that way ? We do not mean to say that architecture
may not yet produce a fine specimen here and there, a sin-
gle masterpiece. We may still, I suppose, have from time
to time, under the reign of pi'inting, a column made by
an entire army, of molten cannon, as during the reign of
architecture we had Iliads and Eomanceros, Mah^bh^-
ratas and Nibelungen-Lieds made by a whole nation, out
of collected and blended rhapsodies. The great accident
of an architect of genius may occur in the twentieth cen-
tuiy, as that of Dante did in the tliirteeiitli ; but archi-
tecture will never again be the social art, the collective
art, the dominant art. The great poem, the great edifice,
the great work of humanity, will no longer be built ; it
will be printed.

And ill the future, should architecture accidentally re-
vive, it will never again he supreme. It must bow to the

THE ONE WILL KILL THE OTHEB.

285 '

sway of literature, formerly subject to it. The respective
positions of the two arts will be reversed. It is certain
that the rare poems to be found during the architectural
period are like monuments. In India, Vyitsa was as mani-
fold, strange, and impenetrable as a pagoda. In Egypt,
poetry had, like the buildings, a grandeur and quietness
of outline ; in ancient Greece, beauty, serenity, and calm ;
in Christian Europe, the Catholic majesty, popular sim-
plicity, the rich and luxuriaiit vegetation of a period of
renewal. The Bible is like the Pyramids, the Iliad like
the Parthenon, Homer like Phidias. Dante in the thir-
teenth century is the last Eoman church ; Shakspeare in'
the sixteenth the last Gothic cathedral,

■ Thus, to sum up what we have so far said in a manner
necessarily brief and imperfect, mankind has two books,
two registers, two testaments: architecture and printing, —
the Bible of stone and the Bible of paper. Undoubtedly,
when we examine these two Bibles, so widely opened
during the lapse of centuries, we may be permitted to
regret the visible majesty of the granite writing, of those
gigantic alphabets formed into colonnades, pylons, and obe-
lisks, of those human mountains which covered the world
of the past, from the pyramid to the belfry, from Cheops
to Strasburg. We should re-read the past upon those
marble pages. We should admire and unceasingly re-turn
the leaves of the hook written by architecture; but we
should not deny the grandeur of the structure reared by
printing in its turn.

That structure is colossal I know not what maker of
statistics has calculated that, by placing one upon an-

286

NOTEE-DAME.

other a, 11 tlio volnmes issued from the press since the clays
of Gutenberg, we might fill up the space between the
earth and the moon ; but this is not the sort of grandeur
which we mean. Still, when we try to form a mental image
of all the products of printing down to our own day, does
not tlie sum total seem a vast construction, resting upon
the entire universe, at which humanity labors without
respite/and whose monstrous summit is lost in the thick
mists of tlie future ? It is the aut-hill of intellects. It
is the hive wliere all wit and imagination, those golden
bees, store up tlieir honey. The structure has a thousand
stories. Here and there, opening on its staircases, we see
the dark caves of learning intersecting one another with-
in it. All over its surface art has woven its arabescjiues,
its rose-windows, and its lace- work, to captivate the eye.
There each individual work, fanciful and unique as it may
seem, has its place and its purpose. Harmony results
fi'om the union of all. From the cathedral of Sliakspeare
to f)lie mosque of Byron, a myriad spires are heaped pell-
mell upon this metropolis of universal tlio light. At its
base are inscribed some antique titles of linmanity wliich
architecture failed to register. At the left of the entrance
is fastened the old white marble bas-relief of Homer ; at
the right the polyglot Bible rears its seven heads. Tlie
hydra of the Eoinancero bristles up beyond, with certain
other hybrid forms, like the Vedas and the Nibeluiigen.
Moreover, the vast edifice remains forever unfinished. Tlie
press, that gigantic machine which untiringly sucks up all
the intellectual sap of society, unceasingly vomits forth
fresh material for its work All mankind are on the seal-

TUK ONE WILL KILL THE OTMKU.

.2ST

fuldiiig. Every niiiul is a mason. The liumITest Riops
up Ills hole or lays his stone. Every day a iVesli coiirse
is laid. ludependeiitly of the original and individual con-
tributions of each writer, there are collective supplies.
The eighteeutli century gave the Encyclopiedia,’' the
French lievolutioii gave the Moniteur.'’ Assuredly, it
is a structure which will gather and grow in unending
spirals. Flere, too, there is a confusion of tongues, an
incessant activity, an indefatigable industry, a frantic
co-operation of all luiinanity ; it is the refuge promised
to intellect against another deluge, against a Hood of
barbarians. It is the second Tower of Babel of the
human race.

AN IMPAETIAL GLANCE AT THE ANCIENT
MAGISTRACY.

^ VEEY lucky fellow, in the year of grace 1482, was
that noble gentleman Eoberfc d’Estouteville, kniglit,
Lord of Beyne, Baron of Ivry and St. Andry in La Marche,
coimcillor and chamberlain to the king, and keeper of the
provosty of Paris. It was some seventeen years since
he received from the king, Fov. 7, 1465, the year of the
cornet,^ the handsome appointment of provost of Paris,

^ This comet, against which Pope Calixtus, uncle to Borgia, ordered
public prajTrs, is the same that reappeared in 1835 .

' A GLANCE AT THE ANCIKKT MAGISTRACY. ' ■ ^28^9

wliieh was regaixled rather as a dignity tluiii an
JJigTdtm^' says Joannes Loemnoeus, cince cum non cmgaa
■potcBtate politiam concmimiU, atqiie prccrogathu rnullis li
Juribiis conj'imcta est'' It was an extraordinary tiling in
1482 for a gentleman to hold a commission from the king;
• and a gentleman, too, whose appointment dated back to
the time of the marriage of Louis XIAs natural daughter
to the Bastard of Bourbon. On the. same day that Eobert
d’EstouteYille succeeded Jacques de A^illiers as provost of
Paris, Master Jelian Bauvet took the place of Master H41ye
de Thorrettes as first president of the court of Paxiiainent,
Jehau Jouvenel des Ursius supplanted Pierre de Morvilliers
in the office of Lord Chancellor of France, Eegnault des
Bormans deprived Pierre Piiy of his place as referendary
in ordinary to the king's household. Now, through how'
many hands had the presidenc}^ chancellorship, and ref*
erendaryship not passed since Eobert d’Estouteville was
made provost of Paris 1 The office was '' granted* into his
keeping,” said the letters-patent ; and certainly he kept it
well. He clung to it, he identified himself with it, he
made himself so much a part of it that he escaped that
passion for change which possessed Louis XL, the suspi-
cious, stingy, industrious king who insisted on keeping up
the elasticity of his power by constant removals and ap-
pointments. Nay, more : the worthy knight had obtained
the reversion of his office for his son, and for the last two
years the name of the noble Jacques d’Estouteville, Es-
quire, had figured beside his own at the head of the ordi-
nary of the provosty of Paris. Assuredly a rare and signal
mark of favor I True, Eobert , d’Estoiiteville was a good

290

NOTKE-DAME.

soldier; he had loyally raised his standard against ''the
league of the public weal/' and had offered the queen a
very marvellous stag made of sweetmeats on the day she
entered Paris, in 14 — . Besides, he had a good friend in
Master Tristan THermite, provost of the marshals of the
king's household. Master Eobert, therefore, led a very
smooth and pleasant life. In the first place, he had a
capital salary, to which were attached and hung, like so
many additional bunches of grapes to his vine, the reve-
nues of the civil and criminal registries of the provostship,
besides the civil and criminal revenues of the Inferior
Courts of the Chittelet, not to mention some slight toll on
the Pont de Mantes and Pont de Corbeil, the tax on all the -
onions, leeks, and garlic brought into Paris, and the tax on
wood meters and salt measures. Add to this the pleasure
of displaying his fine suit of armor within the city limits,
and showing off among the parti-colored red and tan robes
. of the sheriffs and district police which you may still ad-
mire carved upon his tomb at the Abbey of Valmont in
Normandy, as you may also see his embossed morion at
Montlhdiy. And then, — was it nothing to have supreme
power over the twelve sergeants, the porter and warder of
the Chatelet, the ^ two auditors of the Ch^telet, auditores
mstellet%the sixteen commissaries of the sixteen quarters
of the city, the jailer of the Ch^telet, the four enfeoffed
sergeants, the hundred and twenty mounted police, the
liundred and twenty vergers, the captain of the watch, his
under-w’atch, counter-watch, and rear-watch ? Was it noth-
ing to administer high and low justice, to exercise the right
to turn, hang, and draw, to say nothing of the minor juris-

a::glance, at the . ancient magistracy. '

diction ''in the first instance” {in prima IridanllcL as the
charters say) of that viscounty of Paris, so gloriously pro-
vided with seven noble bailiwicks ? Can anything be im-
agined more agreeable than to give judgments and decrees,
as Master Eobert (rEstouteville did daily at the Uraiid-
Chatelet, under tlie broad flat arches of Philip Augustus;
and to return, as he was wont to do every evening, to tliat
charming house in the Eue GaliMe, witliin the precincts
of the royal palace, which lie held in right of his wife,
Madame Ainbroise de Lor(^, there to rest from the labor of
sending some poor devil to pass his night in that little
lodge in the Eue de rEscorcherie, wherein the provosts
and sheriffs of Paris were used to make their prison, —
the same measuring eleven feet in length, seven feet and
four inches in width, and eleven feet in height ” ? ^

And not only had Master Eobert d'Estouteville his pri-
vate court as provost and viscount of Paris, but he also
had his share, both active and passive, in the king’s own
high justice. There was no head of any note but had
passed through his hands before falling into those of the
executioner. It was he who went to the Bastille Saint-
Antoine, in search of M. de Nemours, to take him to
the Markets ; and he who conducted M, de Saint-Poi
to the Grfeve, the latter gentleman sulking and^fretting,
to the great delight of the provost, who had no love for
the constable.

Here, certainly, was more than enough to make life
happy and illustrious, and to justify in the future a mem-
orable page in the interesting history of the provosts of

1 Accounts of the Estate, 1383.

292

NOTRE-DAMK.

Paris, wherein we learn that Oiidard de Ah'lleneiive had
a house in the Hue des Boucheries, that Guillaiiine de
Hangest bought big and little Savoy, tliat Guillaiiine 'Jlii-
boost gave the nuns of Sainte-Genevifeve his houses in the
line Clopin, that Hugiies Aiibriot lived at Hotel dii Porc-
Epic, and otlier domestic facts.

And yet, with all these inotis^es for taking life patiently
and pleasantly, Master Eobert d’Estouteville waked on
the morning of Jam 7, 1482, in a very sulky and disagree-
able mood. Whence came this ilPliiunor ? He could not
have told you himself. Was it because the sky was over-
cast; because tlie buckle of his old Montllfeiy belt was
fastened amiss, and girt his provostship’s goodly portliness
in too military a fashion; because he had seen a band
of ragamuffins march through the street below liis win-
dow, mocking him as they passed in double file, \vearing
doublets without shirts, crownless hats, and wallet and
flask at their side? Was it a vague presentiment of the
tliree hundred and seventy pounds, sixteen pence, and
eight farthings whicli the future king, Charles VIII., was
to cut off from the revenues of the provosty ? The reader
can take his choice; as for us, we incline to the belief
that he was out of temper simply because he was out of
temper.

Besides, it was the day after a holiday, — a stupid day
for everybody, and especially for the magistrate, whose
duty it was to sweep away all the dirt, actual and meta-
phorical, caused by a popular holiday in Paris. And then,
he was to liold court at the Grand-Chatelet. Now, we
have noticed that judges usually so arrange matters that

A GLANCE AT THE ANCIENT MAGISTRACY. 293

the clay upon wliich^ hold court is also the day on
which they are out of temper, in order tha,t they may
always iiave some one upon whom to vent their rage, in
the name of the king, law, and justice.

However, the court had opened without him. His
deputies, in the civil, criminal, and private courts, were
doing liis work for him, as was the custom ; and ever
since eight o’clock in the morning, some scores of citizens,
men and women, crowded and crammed into a dark cor-
ner of the lower court-room of the Chatelet, between a
stout oaken railing and the wall, had blissfully looked on
at the varied and attractive spectacle of the administra-
tion of civil and criminal law by Master .Florian Barbe-
dienne, auditor of the Chatelet, and provost’s deputy,
whose sentences were delivered pell-mell and somewhat
at random.

The hall was small and low, with a vaulted roof. A
table branded with fleur-de-lis stood at the back of it,
with a large carved oaken arm-chair, winch belonged to
the provost and was empty, and a stool on the left ibr
the auditor, Master Florian. Below sat the clerk, scrib-
bling; opposite him were the people ; and before the
door and table were a number of the provost’s officers, in
frocks of purple camlet, with white crosses. Two officers
from the Commonalty Hall, arrayed in parti-colored red
and blue kersey jackets, stood sentry before a half-open
door, behind the table. A single arched window, deep set
in the thick wall, cast a ray of pale January sunshine
upon two grotesque figures,— the comical stone demon
carved as a tailpiece to the . keystone of the vaulted roof,

294 '

NOTRE^BAME.

and the judge seated at the end of the hall upon the
fleurs-de-lis.

E'ow, picture to yourself at the provost’s table, between
two bundles of papers, leaning on his elbows, his feet on
the train of his plain brown cloth gown, his face framed in
its white iamb’s-wool wig, of which his eyebrows seemed
to be a fragment, red-faced, stern, winking and blinking,
majestically bearing the burden of his fat cheeks, which
met under his chin. Master Florian Barbedienne, auditor
of the Chatelet.

Now, the auditor was deaf, — a slight defect for an
auditor. Master Florian gave judgment, nevertheless, with-
out appeal, and. very properly too. It is certainly quite
enough if a judge look as if he were listening ; and the
venerable auditor fulfilled this condition — the only one
requisite to the due administration of justice — all the
better for the fact that his attention was not to be dis-
tracted by any noise.

Moreover, he had a merciless comptroller of his say-
ings and doings, among the audience, in the person of
our friend Jehan Frolic dii Moulin, the little student
of the previous day, that pedestrian who was sure to be
found anywhere in Paris except in front of his professors’
desk.

''Stay,” he whispered to Ms comrade, Eobin Poussepaiu,
who was chuckling beside him while he commented on
the scenes unrolled before them, "there’s Jehanneton
du Buisson, — the pretty daughter of that loafer from the
New Market! Upon my soul, he has condemned her,
the old wretch Then his eyes can’t be any better than .

A GLANCE AT THE ANCIENT MAGISTRACY.

ms

his ears. Fifteen pence and four Paris farthings, for wear-
ing, two strings of beads ! That *s rather dear. [Lex ditri
carviinis! Who’s that fellow? fiebin Chiei-de-Ville,
hauberk-maker, — for having been passed and received as
a master of the said trade ? It ’s his entrance-fee. Hollo !
two gentlemen among these vaiiets, — Aiglet de Soins,
Hutin de Mailly. Two esquires, Corpus Christi / Ah, ha !
the 3 ’'’ve been playing at dice. When shall I see our
rector Iiere ? A hundred Paris pounds line to the king 1
Earbedienne hits hard, like a deaf man as he is ! I
wish 1 may be my brother the archdeacon if this prevent
me from gambling, — gambling by day, gambling by night,
living a gambler, dying a gambler, and gambling away
my soul when my last rag’s gone ! Holy Virgin ! what a
lot of girls 1 One after the other, my lambs 1 Ambroise
L^cuyfere ! Isabeau la Paynette I Bdrarde Gironin ! I
know them all, by Heaven ! Fine ’em ! fine ’em I That T1
teach you to wear gilt belts I Ten Paris pence, coquettes !
Oh, what an old dqg of a judge ! deaf and imbecile I Oh,
Florian, you blockhead ! Oh, Earbedienne, you booby I
See him sit at table ! He gobbles the suitor, he gobbles
the suit, he minces, he munches, he stuffs himself, he fills
himself full. Fines, estrays, taxes, expenses, legal costs,
wages, damages, torture, prison and jail and stocks, are
Christmas cakes and Saint John’s marchpane to him !
Just look at him, the pig! Now, then, good! Still an-
other amorous dame! Thibaud-la-Tliibaude, and no one
else, — for leaving the Eue Glatigny ! Who is that fel-
low ? Giefiroy Mabonne, bowman of the guard. He swore
by the Holy Name, did he? — A fine, Thibaude! a fine,

NOTRK-rJAME.

CTieffroy ! Fine ’em both I Deaf old fool ! he must have
mixed tlie two cliarges up! Ten to one, lie’ll fine the
woman for swearing, and the bowmian for making love !
Attentiori, liubin Poussepain ! Wiiom are they bringing
in now? What a lot of sergeants! By Jupiter! all

the hounds I IMck are

here. This j - • RiRst be the best

head of ’ game theyVe

;;; wild;' boar. : It is,

one, Eobin, it is indeed, —

and a fine one too! P)y Hercules! it’s our yesterday’s
prince, our Lord of Misrule, our bell-ringer, our one-eyed,
humpbacked pet, our wry-face! It’s Quasimodo!”

It was no less a personage, indeed.

It was Quasimodo, bound, corded, tied, garroted, and
well guarded. The squad of men who had him in charge
were assisted by the captain of the w^atch in person, wear-
ing the arms of France embroidered on his breast, and the

A GLANCE AT THE ANCIENT MAGISTRACY. 297

city arms on his back. There was nothing, however,
about Quasiinodo, except his deformity, which could jus-
tify this display of halberds and arquebuses ; he was som-
bre, silent, and quiet. His solitary eye merely cast an
occasional crafty, angry glance at the bonds which held
him.

He gazed around him with the same expression ; but
so dull and sleepy was it, that the women only pointed
him out to each other to mock' at him.

But Master Florian, the auditor, was attentively turning
over the brief containing the charge against (hiasimodo,
which the clerk had just handed him, and having ex-
amined the papers, seemed to be meditating for a moment.
Thanks to this precaution, which he was always careful
to take just before proceeding to an examination, he
knew in advance the name, condition, and crimes of the
prisoner, had his answer ready for the replies which he
expected, and succeeded in extricating himself from all
the intricacies of the examination without making his
deafness too apparent. The brief tlierefore was to him
like the blind maiTs dog. If he chanced to betray his
infirmity by an occasional incoherent remark or an unin-
telligible question, it passed with some for profoundity,
and with others for imbecility. In either case, the honor
of the magistracy was uniinpeached ; for it is much better
that a judge should be considered stupid or profound than
deaf. He accordingly took great pains to liide his deaf-
ness from all, and usually succeeded so well that he had
actually come to deceive himself, — a thing, moreover,
whicli is easier than you would think. All hunchbacks

298

NOTRE-DAME,

carry their heads high, all stammerers are fond of speechi-
fying, all deaf people speak in low tones. As for him, at
most he thought himself a little hard of hearing. This
was the sole concession which he was willing to make to
public opinion upon this point, in his moments of perfect
frankness and self-examination.

Having therefore thoroughly considered Quasimodo’s
case, he threw back his head and half closed his eyes,
in order to look more majestic and impartial, so that
for the time being he was both deaf and blind, — a
twofold condition, without which there can be no perfect
judge. In this magisterial attitude he began his cross-
examination.

Your name ? ”

How, here was a case which had not been '' provided
for by the law,*' — that of one deaf man questioning
another.

Quasimodo, quite unconscious of the question, continued
to gaze fixedly at the judge, and made no answer. The
judge, deaf, and wholly unaware of the prisoner’s deaf^
ness, supposed that he had answered, as all prisoners were
wont to do, and went on, with his mechanical and stupid
assurance, —

'' Good ! Your age ? ”

Quasimodo made no answer. The judge was satisfied,
and continued, —

''How, your business?”

Still the same silence. The audience began to whisper
and look at each other.

"That will do,” resumed the imperturbable auditor,

A GLANCE AT THE ANCIENT MAGLSTKACr. 21Jlj

when lie supposed that the prisoner had ended his third
answer. “ You are accused, before us : of making

a nocturnal disturbance ; secimdo, of an indecent assault
upon the person of a light woman, in p^mjitcliGmm mere-
tricis ; tertio, of rebellion and disloyalty towards the
archers of the guard of our lord the king. What have
you to say for “yourself on all these points ? Clerk, have
you written down all that the prisoner has said thus
tar?”

At this unfortunate question a shout of laughter burst
from both clerk and audience, so violent, so hearty, so
contagious, so universal, that even the two deaf men
could not fail to notice it. Quasimodo turned away,
shrugging his hump in disdain ; while Master Floriaii,
equally surprised, and supposing the laughter of the
spectators to be provoked by some irreverent reply from
the prisoner, made apparent to him by that shrug, ad-
dressed him most indignantly, —

'‘Such an answer as that,^you rascal, deserves a halter!
i)o you know to whom you speak ? ”

This sally was scarcely adapted to silence the outburst
of merriment. It seemed to all so absurd and ridiculous,
that the contagious laughter spread to the very sergeants
from the Commonalty Hall, the kind of men-at-arms
whose stupidity is their uniform. Quasimodo alone pre-
served his gravity, for the very good reason that he
understood nothing of what was going on around him.
The judge, more and more indignant, felt obliged to
proceed in the same strain, hoping in this way to strike
the prisoner with a terror which would react upon the

oOU

NOTRE-BAME,

audience and restore them to a due sense of respect for
Mm. '■

'‘So then, perverse and thievish knave, you venture to
insult the auditor of the GhS^telet, the chief magistrate of
the police courts of Paris, appointed to inquire into all
crimes, offeuces, and misdemeanors; to control all trades
and prevent monopoly ; to keep the pavements in repair ;
to put down hucksters of poultry, fowl, and wild game ;
to superintend the measuring of logs and firewood ; to
cleanse the city of mud and the air of contagious diseases,
— in a word, to watch continually over the public welfare,
without wages or hope of salary ! Do you know that my
name is Florian Barbedienne, and that I am the lord pro-
vost’s own deputy, and, moreover, commissary, comptroller,
and examiner with equal power in provosty, bailiwick,
court of registration, and presidial court ? ”

There is no reason why a deaf man talking to a deaf
man should ever cease. Heaven knows when Master Flo-
rian, thus launched on the full flood of his own eloquence,
would have paused, if .the low door at the back of the
room had not suddenly opened and admitted the provost
himself.

At his entrance Master Florian did not stop short, but
turning half round on his heel and abruptly addressing
to the provost the harangue with which but a moment
before he was overwhelming Quasimodo, he said : " My
Lord, I demand such sentence as it may please you to
inflict upon the prisoner here present, for Ins grave and
heinous contempt of court.”

And he sat down again quite out of breath, wiping

A GLANCE AT THE ANCIENT MAGISTHACY. 301

away the big beads of moisture which ran clown Iiis
face like tears, wetting the papers spread out before him.
Master Eobert d’Estoiiteville frowned, and commanded
Quasimodo’s attention by a sign so imperious and signifi-
cant that even the deaf man understood something of
his meaning.

The provost addressed him severely : “ What brings
you here, scoundrel?”

The poor wretch, supposing that the provost asked his
name, broke his wonted silence, and answered in a hoarse
and guttural voice, Quasimodo.”

The answer had so little to do with the cpiestion, that
an irresistible laugh -again ran round the room, and Mas-
ter Eobert cried out, red with rage, —

''Would you mock me too, you arrant knave?”

" Bell-ringer of Xotre-Dame,” replied Quasimodo, fancy-
ing himself called upon to explain to the judge who he
was.

" Bell-ringer, indeed ! ” responded the provost, who, as
we have already said, had waked in an ill enough humor
that morning not to require any fanning of the flames of
his fury by such strange answers. " Bell-ringer 1 1 11 have
a peal of switches rung upon your back through all the
>streets of Paris I Do you hear me, rascal ? ”

" If you want to know my age,” said Quasimodo, " I
believe I shall be twenty on Saint Martin’s Day.”

This was too much ; tlie provost could bear it no
longer.

" Ob, you defy the provost’s office, do you, wretch 1
Vergers, take this scamp to the pillory in the Orfeve ; beat

302

NOTEE-DAME.

him well, and then turn him for an hour. He shall pay
me for this, odzooks ! And I order this sentence to
be proclaimed, by the aid of four sworn trumpeters,
throughout the seven castellanies of the viscounty of
Paris.”

The clerk at once wrote down the sentence.

“ A wise sentence, by God ! ” exclaimed the little stu-
dent, Jehan Frollo du Moulin, from his corner.

The provost turned, and again fixed his flashing eyes
upon Quasimodo : “ I believe the scamp said ' By God ! ’
Clerk, add a fine of twelve Paris pence for swearing, and
let half of it go to the Church of Saint Eustache; I
am particularly fond of Saint Eustache.”

In a few moments the sentence was drawn up. It was
simple and brief in tenor. The common law of the pro-
vosty and viscounty of Paris had not yet been elaborated
by the president, Thibaut Baillet, and by Eoger Barmue,
the king's advocate; it was not then obscured by that
mass of quirks and quibbles which these two lawyers
introduced at the beginning of the sixteenth century.
Everything about it was clear, expeditious, and explicit.
It w'ent straight to the mark, and at the end of every
path, unconcealed by brambles or briers, the wheel, tlie
gallows, or the pillory were plainly to be seen from the
very outset. At least, you knew what was coming.

The clerk handed the sentence to the provost, who
affixed his seal to it, and left the room, to continue his
round of the courts, in a state of mind which must have
added largely that day to the population of the jails of
Paris. Jehan Frollo and Robin Poussepain laughed in

A, GLz\,NGE AT THE ANCIENT. MAGISTRACY.

303

their sleeves. Quasimodo looked on with indifference
and surprise.

But the clerk, just as Master Florian Barbedienne was
reading the sentence in his turn before signing it, felt a
twinge of pity for the poor devil of a prisoner, and in

the hope of gaining some diminution of his punishment,
leaned as close as he could to the auditor’s ear, and said,
pointing to Quasimodo, ''That fellow is deaf.”

He hoped that their common infirmity might rouse
Master Florian's interest in the prisoner's favor. But, in
the first place, we have already observed that Master
Florian did not cuire to have his deafness noticed. In the
next place, he was so hard of hearing that he caught not
one word of what the clerk said to him; and yet, he
wanted to have it appear that he heard, and therefore

304

NOTEE-DAME.

answered; “Oho! that’s a different matter; I did not
know that. Give him another hour in the pillory, in
that case.”

And he signed the sentence with this modification.

“Well done ! ” said Eobin Poussepain, who bore Quasi-
modo a grudge; “that will teach him to maltreat folks.”

THE RAT-MOLE.

the reader's permission, we will return to the
^ ^ Grfeve, which we left yesterday with Cxiiiigoire, to
follow Esmeralda.

It is ten o’clock in the morning ; everything smacks of
the day after a holiday. The pavement is covered with
fragments, — ribbons, scraps, feathers from the plumes,
drops of wax from the torches, crumbs from the public
feast. A number of citizens are lounging here and there,
occasionally stirring the dying, embers of the bonfire
with their ieet, going into ecstasies over the Pillar
House, as tliey recall the fine hangings of the previous
day, and staring at the nails which held them, the last
remnant of their pleasure. The venders of cider and beer
roll their barrels through the various groups, A few busy
■ , so,;

806

NOTRE-^DAME.

passers come and go. The shopkeepers chat and gossip
with one another at the door of their shops. The festivah
tlie ambassadors, Coppenole, the Lord of Misrule, are on
every tongue, each vying with the other in the severity
of his criticisms and the loudness of his laughter. And
yet four mounted police, who have just stationed them-
selves at the four corners of the pillory, have already
collected about them a goodly portion of the populace
scattered about the square, and willing to stand stupidly
still for any length of time, in the hope of witnessing some
petty punishment.

If now the reader, having looked upon this lively and
noisy scene enacting in every part of the square, will turn
his gaze towards that ancient half-Gothic, half-Eoihan
structure known as Tour-Eoland, which forms the west-
ern angle of the quay, he may perceive at the corner
of its facade a large public breviary, richly illuminated,
protected from the rain by a small pent-house, and from
tliieves by a grating, which, however, allows the passer-by
to turn over its leaves. Beside this breviary is a narrow
arched window, guarded by two iron bars placed crosswise,
and looking out upon the square, — the only opening
through which a little air and light reach a tiny cell
without a door, built on the ground-floor, in the thick-
ness of the wall of the old house, and fiUed with a peace
made more profound, a silence made more melancholy,
by the fact that a public square, the noisiest and most
thickly-peopled place in all Paris, swarms and shrieks just
outside.

This cell had been celebrated throughout Paris for al-

THE EAT-HOLE.

most tliree centuries ; since Maclaine Eolaude, of the Tour-
Eoland, being in mourning for her father, who died while
on a Crusade, had it hewed out of the wail of her own
house and shut herself up in it forever, keeping no part
of her palace but this one lodging, the door of whicli was
walled up and the window open, in winter as in summer,

giving all the rest of her property to God and the poor.
The desolate dame did indeed await death for twenty
years within this premature tomb, praying night and day
for her father’s soul, sleeping upon a bed of ashes, without
even a stone for pillow, clad in black sackcloth, ?ind liv-
ing on such portions of bread and water as the pity of
the passers-by placed on her window-sill ; thus accepting

308

NOTRE~BAME.

charity after having bestowed it. At her death, as she was
about to pass to another tomb, she bequeathed this one
in perpetuity to all afflicted women, mothers, widows, or
daughters, who had great need to pray for others or them-
selves, and who wished to bury themselves alive in token
of their great grief or great penitence. The poor of her
time paid her the best of funeral rites in their tears and
blessings ; but, to their great regret, the pious dame could
not he canonized a saint, for lack of patronage. Those of
them wdio were inclined to be impious hoped that the
matter might be more readily arranged in Paradise than at
Pome, and quite simply prayed to God instead of to the
Pope, for the deceased. Most of them were satisfied with
holding her memory sacred and making relics of her rags.
The city, for its part, founded for the lady’s sake a public
breviary, which was fastened to the wall near the window
of the cell, so that those who passed might occasionally
stop, if only to pray, that so the prayer might lead them
to think of alms, and that the poor recluses, the heirs
of Madame Eolande’s cell, might not die of hunger and
neglect.

ISTor was this sort of tomb a great rarity in the cities of
the Middle Ages. There might Irequently be found, in
the most crowded street, in the most motley and clamor-
ous market-place, in the very midst of the confusion,
under the horses’ feet, under the cart-wlieels, as it were, a
cellar, a well, a walled and grated cell, within which some
human being prayed night and clay, voluntarily vowed to
everlasting lamentation, to some extraordinary expiation.
And all tlie reflections which would be roused to-day by so

THE RAT-HOLE.

■ 309 :

singular a siglit, — that horrid cell, a sort of coinun'ting link
between the house and the tomb, the cemetery and the
city; that living creature cutoff from luinian eompanion-
ship and thenceforth reckoned with the dead ; that lamp
consuming its last drop of oil in dai'kness ; that remnant
of life flickering in a grave ; that breath, that voice, that
perpetual prayer, in a coffin of stone ; tliat face forever
turned towaids the other world ; that eye already iliumineil
by another sun ; that ear glued to the wall of tlie tond) ;
that soul imprisoned in tliat body ; that body imprisoned
in that dungeon ; and beneath that double easing of flesh
and stone the murmur of that sufiering soul, — nothing
of all this was noted by tlie crowd.

The unreasoning and far from subtile piety of that day
could not conceive of so many sides to an act of religion.
It viewed the thing as a whole, and honored, venerated,
sanctified the sacrifice if need be, but dkl not analyze the
suffering, and pitied it* but slightly. It occasionally be-
stowed some pittance on the wretched penitent, looked
through the hole to see if lie were still alive, knew not
his name, hardly knew how many years it was since he
began to die, and to the stranger who asked about the
living skeleton rotting in that cellar, the r.eighhors sim-
ply answered, '' That is the recluse.”

People saw tilings in this w^ay tlien, — without meta-
physics, without exaggeration, without magnifying-glass,
with the naked eye. The microscope had not yet been
invented, eitlier for material or for spiritual things.

Besides, although people marvelled so little at them, in-
stances of this kind of claustriation in the heart of a town

NOTRE-BAME.

were really very frequent, as we just now observed. Paris
contained a goodly number of these cells for praying to
God and doing penance; they were almost all occupied.
It is true that the clerfy did not care to leave them empty,
as that would imply lukewarmness among the faithful ; and
they therefore put lepers into them when they had no
penitents. Besides the cell in the Grbve, there was one at
Montfaucon, one at the charnel-house of the Cemetery of
the Innot^ents, another, — I’ve forgotten just where, — at
Ciichon House, I believe ; others again in many other places,
traces of wliich may yet be found in popular tradition, for
lack of monuments. Tlie University had also cells of its
own. On St. Genevieve’s Mount a kind of mediaeval Job
for thirty years sang the seven penitential psalms upon a
dunghill, at the bottom of a cistern, beginning again
whenever lie reached the end, chanting louder by night,
magna wee 2)er umbras; and even now the antiquary
fancies that he hears his voice when he enters the street
known as Eue I^uits-qui-parle ('' Talking Well ”).

But to keep to the cell of the Tour-Ptoland, we should
mention that it had never wanted for recluses. Since
Madame Eolande’s death, it liad seldom been vacant for
more tlian a 3’'ear. Many women had gone thither to
weep, until deatli, for parents, lovers, or sins. Parisian
malice, which interferes with everything, even those things
which concern it least, asserted that very few widows had
ever been seen within its walls^

As was the fashion of that period, a Latin inscription
on the wall informed the learned passers-by of the pious
purpose of this cell The custom was retained until the

middle of the sixteenth century, of explaining the purpose
of a building by a brief device inscribed above the door.
Tims we still read in France, over the gate of the prison
belonging to the manor of the Lord of Tourville : Siieto ei
spera ; '' in Ireland, under the escutcheon over the great
door of Fortescue Castle: '' Forte salus duemu ;

and in England, over the main entrance to the hospita-
ble manor of Earl Cowper: Ttmm esV^ In those days
every edifice embodied a thought.

■ As there was no door to the walled cell in the Toiir-
Eoland, some one had carved in Eoman capitals over the
window these two words: —

Hence the people, whose mind never grasps such nice
distinctions, and wlio are quite ready to translate Ludovico
Magno into the Porte Saint-Denis, gave tins dark, damp,
gloomy cavern the name of the Troic-cimyllats,'^ or the
Eat-Hole, an explanation possibly less sublime, but cer-
tainly more picturesque than the other.

if

THE STORY OF A WHEATEN CAKE.

A T the time of whicli this story treats, the cell in
^ the Tour-Rolaiid was occupied. If the reader wish
to know by whom, he has but to listen to the conversation
of three worthy gossips, who, at the moment wlien we drew
his attention to the Eat-Hole, were walking directly that
way, going from the Clultelet towards the Gr^ve, along
the water’s edge.

Two of these women were dressed like good citizens of
Terris. Their fine white gorgets ; their petticoats of striped
linsey-w^oolsey, red and blue ; their white knitted stockings,
wdth colored clocks, pulled well up over the leg; their
square-toed shoes of tan-colored leather -with black soles ;
and above all their head-dress, a sort of tinsel horn over-

, THE ^STORT OF A., WHEATEN CAKE. ' ,' 313 '

loaded with ribbons and laee, still worn by the women of
Champagne and by the grenadiers of tlie Eussian Imper-ial
Guard, proclaimed that they belonged to that class of rioh
tradesfolk occupying the middle ground between what
servants call “a woman” and what they call “a lady”
They wore neither rings nor gold crosses ; and it was easy
to see that this was not from poverty, but quite simply
from fear of a fine. Their companion ^\'as attired in much
the same style ; but there was something in her appearance
and manner which bespoke the country notary’s wife. It
was evident by the way in which her girdle was arranged
high above her hips, that she had not been in Paris long ;
add to tliis a pleated gorget, knots of ribbon on her shoes,
the fact that the stripes of lier petticoat ran breadtliwise
and not lengthwise, and a thousand other enormities re-
volting to good taste.

The first two walked with the gait peculiar to Parisian
women showing Paris to their country friends. The
country-woman held by the hand a big boy, who grasped
in his hand a large cake. We regret that we must add
that, owing to the severity of the season, his tongue did
duty as a pocket-handkerchief.

The child loitered, non passihus ceqtds,'^ asYirgil has it,
and stumbled constantly, for which his mother scolded him
well. True, he paid far more attention to the cake than to
the pavement. Undoubtedly he had some grave reason for
not biting it (the cake), for he contented himself with
gazing affectionately at it. But his mother should have
taken charge of the cake. It was cruel to make a Tanta-
lus of the chubby child.

Mi:

NOTRE~DAME.

But the three damsels (for the term '"dame” was then
reserved for noble ladies) were all talking at once.

“ Make haste, Damoiselle Mahiette/' said the youngest of
the three, who was also the biggest, to the country-woman.
'' I am mightily afraid we shall be too late ; they told us
at the Chatelet that he was to be taken directly to the
pillory/’

iN onsense ! What do, you mean, Damoiselle Oudarcle
Musnierr' replied the other Parisian. “He is to spend
two hours in the pillory. We have plenty of, time. Did
you ever see any one pilloried, my dear Mahiette ?

“ Yes,” said the country-woman, “ at Eheims.”

“ Pooh 1 What ’s your pillory at PJieims ? A miserable
cage, where they turn nothing but peasants 1 A fine sight,
truly!”

“Nothing but peasants !” said Mahiette, “in the Cloth-
market I at Eheims 1 We • ve seen some very fine criminals
there, — people who had killed both father and mother 1
Peasants, indeed ! What do you take ns for, Gervaise ? ”

The country -lady was certainly on the eve of losing her
temper in defence of her pillory. Fortunatety the dis-
creet Damoiselle Oudarde Musnier changed the subject
ill time: —

“ By the bye, Damoiselle Mahiette, wdiat do you say
to our Flemish ambassadors ? Have you any as fine at
Eheims ?”

“ I confess,” answered Mahiette, “ that there is no place
like Paris for seeing such Flemings as those.”

“Did you see among the embassy that great ambassa-
dor who is a hosier?” asked Oudarde.

THE STORY OF A WHEATKX CAKE.

315

'' Yes,” responded Mahiette. He looks like a regular
Saturn.”

And that fat one with the smooth face ? ” added Ger-
vaise. '' And that little fellow with small eyes and red
lids, as ragged and haiiy as a head of thistle ?

‘"Their liorses were the finest sight,” said Oudarde,
“dressed out in the fasliioii of their country.”

“ Oh, my dear,” interrupted the rustic Mahiette, as-
siuning an air of superiority in her turn, “ what would you
say if you had seen, in 1461, at the coronation at Eheiins,
now eighteen years ago, the horses of the XA’inces and of
the king's escort ? Housings and trappings of every de-
scription : some of damask cloth, of fine cloth of gold,
trimmed with sable ; others, of velvet, trimmed with er-
mines' tails ; others, loaded down with goldsmiths’ work
and great gold and silver bells 1 And the money that it
must have cost ! And the lovely page-boys that rode on
them!”

“ That does not alter the fact,” dryly responded Damoi-
selle Oudarde, “ that the Flemings have very fine liorses, and
that tliey had a splendid supper last night, given them by
the mayor at the City Hall, where they were treated to
sugar-plums, hippocras, spices, and otlier rarities.”

“ What are you talking about, neighbor 1 ” cried Ger-
vaise. “ It was at the Petit-Bourbon, with the Cardinal
tiiat the Flemings supped.”

“ Not at all. At the City Hall ! ”

“ Yes, indeed. At the Petit- Bourbon 1 ”

“ So surely was it at the City Hall,” returned Oudarde
sharply, “ that Doctor ScourMe made them a s;

KOTRE-DAMI?.

:T]ri

Latin, with wliieh they seemed mightily pleased. It was
liiy husband, w])o is one of the licensed copyists, who

^ ..told.. me ..so/"''

“ So surely was it at the Petit-Bourbon ” replied Ger-
vaise, with no whit less of animation, ''that I can give
}'ou a list of what the Cardinars attorney treated them to :
IhvelYe dou!>le i{iiarts of hippocras, white, yellow, and red ;
twenty-four boxes of double-gilt Lyons marchpane ; as
many wax torches of two pounds each, and six half-casks
of Beaune wine, red and white, the best to be found. I
liope that ’s decisive. I have it from my husband, wlio
is captain of fifty men in the Coinmonalty Hall, and who
was only tins morning comparing the Flemish ambassa-
dors with those sent by Prester Jolui and the Emperor
of Trebizond, who came from Mesopotamia to Paris dur-
ing the reign of the last king, and who had rings in
their eai*s/'

It i.s so true that they supped at the City Hall,” re-
plied Oudarde, but little moved by- this display of elo-
quence, that no one ever saw such an exhibition of meats
and sugar-plums before.’*

But I tell you that they were served by Le Sec, one
of tlie city guard, at the Petit-Bourbon, and that ’s what
misled you.”

At the City Hall, I say ! ”

At the Petit-Bourbon, my dear ! For did n’t they
illuminate the word 'Hope/ which is written over the
jreat entrance, with magical glasses ? ”

"At the City Hall! at the City Hall! Don’t I tell
you that Husson-le-Voir played the flute ? ”

THE STORY OF A WHEATEN CAKE, 317

''I. tell yon, no !”

I tell you, yes ! ”

“ And I tell you, no 1 ”

The good fat Oudarde was making ready to reply, and
the quarrel might have come to blows, if Mahiette had
not suddenly exclaimed : Only see those people crowd-
ing together at the end of the bridge ! There’s something
in the midst of them, at which they’re all looking.”

'' Truly,” said Gervaise, I do hear the sound of a tam-
bourine. I verily believe it ’s that little Smeralda play-
ing her tricks with her goat. Come quick, Mahiette I
Make haste and pull your boy along faster. You came
here to see all the sights of Paris. Yesterday you saw the
Flemings; to-day you must see the gypsy girl.”

“ The gypsy I ” said Mahiette, turning back abruptly,
and grasping her son’s arm more firmly. “Heaven pre-
serve us ! She might steal my child ! — Come, Eastache 1”

And she set out running along the quay towards the
Greve, until she had left the bridge far behind her. But
the child, whom she dragged after her, stumbled, and fell
upon his knees ; she stopped, out of breath. Oudarde and
Gervaise rejoined her.

“That gypsy girl steal your child!” said Gervaise.
“ What a strange idea ! ”

Mahiette shook her head with a pensive air.

“ The queer part of it is,” observed Oudarde, that the
nun has the same opinion of the gypsies.”

“ What do you mean by the nun ? ” said Mahiette.

« Why I ” said Oudarde, Sister Gudule.”

‘‘And who,” returned Mahiette, “is Sister Gudule ?”

'SIS;

NOTRE-BAIME.

You must indeed be from Rheiins, not to know that ! ”
replied Oudarde, ''She is the recluse ot the Rat-Hole/'

''Wiiatr* asked Mahiette, "the poor woman to whom
we are carrying this cake?”

Oudarde noddecl

" Exactly so. You will see her presently at lier window
on the Grhve. She feels just as you do about those gypsy
vagabonds who go about drumming on the tambourine and
telling people's fortunes. No one knows wliat gave her
such a horror d* gypsies. But you, Mahiette, — why should
veil take to your heels in such haste at the mere sight of
them?”

" Oh,” said Mahiette, clasping her cliild to her bosom,
' I could not bear to have the same thing happen to me
that liappened to Paquette la Chantefieurie.”

"Oh, do tell us the story, my dear Mahiette,” said
Gervaise, taking her arm.

"Gladly,” answered Mahiette; “but you must indeed
be from Paris, not to know that 1 Y"ou must know, then,
— but we need not stand here to tell the tale, — that Pa-
quette la Cliantefleurie was a pretty girl of eighteen when I
was one too, that is to say, some eighteen years ago, and it
is her own fault if she is not now, like me, a happy, hale,
and hearty mother of six-and-thirty, with a husband and a
son. However, from the time she was fourteen, it was too
late I She was the daugliter of Guybertaut, minstrel to
the boats at Eheims, the same who played before King
Charles VII., at his coronation, when he sailed down the
river Vesle from Sillery to Muison, and, more by token,
the Ylaid of Orleans was in the boat witli him. Her old

THE STORY OE A WHEATEIST CAKE. 311)

father cUed when Paquette \ms still a mere child ; then she
had no one but her mother, a sister to Pradoii, the master
brazier and coppersmith at Paris, in the Eiie Parin-Garlio,
who died last year. You see that she came of an honest
family. The mother was a good, simple woman, iiiifor-
tiinately, and taught Paquette nothing but a little fringe-
making and toy-making, winch did not keep the child
from growing very tall and remaining very poor. The two
lived at Eheims, on the water's edge, in the Eue Polle-
Peine. Note this. I think this was what brought ill-
luck to Paquette. In ’61, the year of the coronation of oiir
King Louis XI., — may Heaven preserve him I — Paquette
was so merry and so pretty that every one knew her as
Chantefleuried Poor girl ! She had lovely teeth, and she
liked to laugh, so that she might show them. Now, a girl
who likes to laugh is on the high-road to weep ; fine teeth
spoil fine eyes. Such was Chantefleuiie, She and her
mother had hard work to earn a living ; they were greatly
reduced after the minstrers death; their fringe-making
did not bring them in more than six farthings a week,
which does n’t make quite two pence. Where was the
time when Father Guybertaut earned twelve Paris pence at
a single coronation for a single song ? One winter (it was
that same year of ’61), when the two women had not a stick
of firewood and it was bitterly cold, the cold gave Chante-
fleurie such a fine color that the men called her Paquette,
— ’ some called her Paquerette,^ — and she went to the
bad. — Enstachel don’t you let me see you nibble that
cake I — We soon saw that she was ruined, when she came

^ The song-blossom.

^ A daisy.

mi

NOTRE-BAME.

to church one fine Sunday with a gold cross on her neck.
At fourteen years of age! Think of that! First, it was
the young Vicomte de Cormontreuil, whose castle is about
three quarters of a league away from Eheims; then, M.
Henri de Triaucoint, the king’s equerry ; then, something
Ifjwer, Oliiart de Beaulion, sergeant-at-arms; then, still
lower, Query Aubergeon, the king’s carver; then, Maed de
Frdpus, the dauphin’s barber; then, Thdvenin-le-Moine,
the king’s cook ; then, still descending to older and meaner
men, she fell into the hands of Guillaume Eacine, viol-
player, and of Tliierry-deAIer, the lantern-maker. Then —
poor Chantefleurie ! — she became common property; she
had come to the last copper of her gold piece. How shall
I tell you, ladies ? At the time of the coronation, in tliat
same year ’61, it was she wdio made the king of ribalds’
bed, — that selii^same year. !”

llahiette sighed, and wiped a tear from her cheek.

very uncommon story,” said Gervaise; “and I
don’t see that it has anything to do with gypsies, or
with children.”

“ Patience 1” replied Mahiette ; “we shall soon come to
tlie child. In ’66, sixteen years ago this very month, on
Saint Paula’s Day, Paquette gave birth to a little girl.
Poor thing! Great was her joy; she had long wished for a
child. Her mother, good woman, who never knew how^ to
do anything but shut her eyes to her daughter’s faults, —
her mother w^as dead. Paquette had no one left to love, no
one to love her. Five years had passed since her fall, and
Cliantefleurie was but a mivserable creature. She was
alone, alone in the world, pointed at, hooted after in the

THE STORY OF A WHEATEN CAKE.

321

street, beaten by the police, mocked by little ragged boys.
And then, she was now twenty years old ; and twenty is
old age to such women. Vice had ceased to bring her in
much more than her fringe-making used to do ; every fresh
wrinkle took away another coin. Winter was once more
a hard season for her; wood was again scarce upon her
hearth, and bread in her cupboard. She could no longer
work ; for when she took to a life of pleasure she learned
to be lazy, and she suffered far more than before, because
in learning to be lazy, she became accustomed to pleasure.
At least, that ’s the way the priest of Saint-Eeuiy^explains
it to us that such women feel cold and hunger more than
other poor folks do when they are old.”

'' Yes,” remarked G-ervaise ; '' but the gypsies ? ”

'' One moment, Gervaise ! ” said Oudarde, whose atten-
tion was less impatient. ** What would there be left for
the end, if everything came at the beginning ? Go on,
Mahiette, please. Poor Chantefieurie I ”

* Mahiette continued : —

“ So she was very wretched, very unhappy, and her
tears wore deep furrows in her cheeks. But in her shame,
her disgrace, and her misery, it seemed to her that she
should feel less ashamed, less disgraced, and less miserable,
if she had something to love or some one to love her. It
must he a child ; for only a child could be innocent enough
for that. She recognized this after trying to love a thief,
the only man who would have anything to say to her;
but after a little she saw that even the thief despised her.
Women of that sort must have a lover or a child to fill up
their hearts, otherwise they are very unhappy. As she

, 322 .

KOTRE-BAME.

could not have a lover, she gave herself up to longing for a
child ; and as she had never given over being pious, she
prayed night and day that the good God would give her
one. The good God had pity on her, and gave her a little
girl. I cannot describe to you her delight; she covered
it with a jjerfect rain of tears, kisses, and caresses. She
nursed her child herself, made swaddling-clothes for it of
her own coverlet, — the only one she had on her bed, — and
no longer felt cold or hungry. She grew handsome again.
An old maid makes a -young mother. She took to her
former courses ; her old friends came back to see her, and
she readily found customers for her wares, and with the
price of ail these iniquities she bought baby linen, caps,
and bibs, lace gowns and little satin bonnets, without ever
thinking of buying herself another coverlet. — Master
Eustache, did n't I tell you not to eat that cake ? — It is
certain that little Agn^s, — that was the child’s name,
her given name ; for as to a surname, Chantefleurie had
long since ceased to have one, — it is certain that the little
thing was more tricked out witli ribbons and embroidery
than a dauphiuess from Dauphiny ! Among other things,
she had a pair of tiny shoes, the like of which even King
Leans XI. himself surely never had ! Her mother sewed
and embroidered them herself ; she put all the dainty arts
of lier fringe-making into them, and as many intricate
stitches as would make a gown for the Holy Virgin. They
were the two sweetest little pink ghoes imaginable. They
were no longer than my thumb, and you must have seen
the child’s tiny feet slip out of them, or you would never
liave believed they could have gone in. To be sure, those

THE STORY OF A WHEATEN CAKE. 323

little leet were so small, so pink, and so pretty ! — pinker
than the satin of the shoes 1 — When you have children of
your own, Oudarde, you will know that there is nothing
prettier than those little feet and hands!”

'M ask nothing better,” said Oudarde, sighing; ‘'but I
must wait the good pleasure of Master Andry Musnier.”

" Besides,” resumed Mahiette, " Pacpiette’s child had not
merely pretty feet. I saw her when. she was only ioiir
mouths old ; she was a perfect love ! Her eyes were big-
ger than her mouth, and she had the finest black hair,
which curled already ! She would have made a splendid
brunette if she had lived to be sixteen! Her mother
became more and more crazy about her every day. She
fondled her, kissed her, tickled her, washed her, decked her
out, almost ate her up! She lost her head over her; she
tlianked God for her. Her pretty little pink feet particu-
larly were an endless wonder, the cause of a perfect delir-
ium of joy 1 Her lips were forever pressed to tliem ; she
could never cease admiring their smallness. She would
put them into the tiny shoes, take them out again, admire
them, wonder at them, hold them up to the light, pity
them when they tried to walk upon the bed, and would
gladly have*spent her life on her knees, putting the shoes
on and off those feet, as if they had been those of an
infant Jesus.”

'' A very pretty story,” said Gervaise in a low voice ;
“ but what has all this to do with gypsies ? ’’

“ This,” replied Mahiette. There came one day to
Rheims some very queer looking men on horseback. They
were beggars and vagrants Troamiug about the country,

':324

IS[OTRE-DAME.

under tlie lead of their duke and their counts. They were
swarthy, all had curly hair, and silver rings in their ears.
Tiie women were even uglier than the men. Their faces
were blacker, and always uncovered ; they wore shabby
blouses, with an old bit of cloth woven of cords tied over
their shoulders, and their hair hung down like a horse’s
tail. The children wallowing under their feet would
]]avo frightened a monkey. A band of outlaws I They
all came in a direct line from Lower Egypt to Elieims
by way of Poland. People said that the Pope had coii"
fessed them, and ordered them, by way of penance, to
travel through the world for seven years in succession,
without ever sleeping in beds. So they called themselves
penitents, and smelt horribly* It seems that they were
once Saracens, so they must have believed in Jupiter;
and they demanded ten Tours pounds from every crosiered
and mitred archbishop, bishop, and abbot. It was a papal
bull that gave them this right. They came to Eheirns
to tell fortunes in the name of the King of Algiers and
the Emperor of Germany. You may imagine that this was
quite enough reason for forbidding them to enter the town.
So the wliole band encamped near the Porte de Braiiie with
a good grace, on that hill where there is a lAill, close by
the old chalk-pits ; and every one in Eheims made haste
to visit them. They looked into your hand and told you
most marvellous things ; they were quite capable of pre-
dicting to J udas that he should be pope. And yet there
were evil reports of their having stolen children, cut purses,
and eaten human flesh. Wise folks said to the simple,
'Keep away from them!* and then went themselves in

THE STOKY OF A WHEATEN CARE. 325

secret. It was a perfect rage. The fact is, they said
things that would have amazed a cardinal Mothers
boasted loudly of their children, after the gypsies had
read all sorts of miracles written in tlieir hands in Turk-
isii and in heathen tongues. One had an emperor for her
son, another a pope, and another a captain. Poor Ohante-
iieurie was seized with curiosity; she longed to know
what her child would be, and whether her pretty little
Agnhs would not one day be Empress of Armenia, or
something of that sort. So she carried her to the gypsies ;
and the gypsies admired the child, cai*essed her, and
kissed her with their black mouths, and wondered at
her little hand, alas I to the great delight of her mother.
They were particularly charmed with her pretty feet
and her pretty shoes. The child was not a year old
then. She already lisped a few words, laughed at her
mother like a little madcaj), \vas round and fat, and
had a thousand enchanting little tricks like those of
the angels in Pa,radise. She was sorely afraid of the
gypsy women, and cried. But her mother kissed her the
harder, and went away charmed with the good luck which
the fortune-tellers had promised her Agnfes. She was to
be beautiful, virtuous, and a queen. She therefore re-
turned to her garret in the Eue P^olle-Peine, quite proud of
carrying a queen in her arms. Next day she took advan-
tage of a moment wdiile the child was asleep on her hed
(for she always had it sleep in her own bed), softly left
the door ajar, and ran out to tell a neighbor in th-e Eue de
la Sdchesserie tliat her daughter Agnfes would one day have
tlie King of England and the Duke of Ethio[)ia to wait

326

NOTRE-DAME.

upon her at table, and a hundred other surprising things.
On her return, hearing no sound as she climbed the stairs,
she said to herself, ' Good ! baby is still asleep.' She found
the door much wider open than she had left it ; but she
w'ent in, poor mother! and ran to the bed. The child was
gone ; the place was empty. There was nothing left of the
child but one of her pretty little shoes. She rushed from
the rootn, flew down the stairs, and began to beat the walls
with her head, crying, 'My child! my child I Where is ray
child ? Wiio has taken away my child ? ' The street was
deserted, the house stood alone ; no one could give her any
information. She went through the town, searched every
street, ran up and down all day long, mad, distracted, terri-
ble, staring in at doors and windows, like a wild beast that
has lost its young* She was breathless, dishevelled, fearful
to look upon, and there was a fire in her eyes which dried
her. tears. She stopped the passers-by, and cried: 'My
daughter! my daughter! my pretty little daughter! If
any one will give me back my daughter, I will be his
servant, the servant of his dog, and he shall devour my
heart if he will/ She met the priest of Saint-Eemy, and
said to liim : ' I will dig the ground with my nails, only
give me back my child ! ' It was heart-rending, Oudarde ;
and I saw a very hard-hearted man, Master Ponce I.acabre,
tlie attorney, weep. Ah ! poor motlier 1 When niglit came,
she went liome. During her absence a neighbor had seen
two gypsy women go slyly upstairs with a bundle in their
arms, then shut the door, again and hurry away. After
they had gone, a child's cries were heard, coming from
Paquette's* I’oom. The mother lauglied wildly, flew over

THE STUKY OF A WHEATEN CAKE.

the stairs as if she liad wings, burst open her door, and
went in. A frightful thing had happened, Oiidarde ! In-
stead of her lovely little Agnfes, so rosy and so fresh,

who was a gift from
the good God, there
lay a hideous little
monster, blind, lame,
deformed, squalling,, and crawling about the brick floor.
She hid her eyes in horpr. 'Ohr she exclaimed, 'can
the witches have changed my daughter into this Jiorrible

328

NOTRE^DAME.

beast?' The little club-foot was hastily removed; he
would have driven her mad. He was the monstrous ofi-
spring of some gypsy woman given over to the Devil.
He seemed to be about four years old, and spoke a lan-
guage which was no human tongue; such words were
quite impossible. Chantefleurie flung herself upon the
little shoe, — all that was left her of all that she had
loved. She lay there so long, motionless, silent, appar-
ently not breathing, that the neighbors thought she must
be dead. Suddenly she trembled from head to foot,
covered her precious relic with frantic kisses, and burst
into sobs as if her heart were broken. I assure you
that we all wept with her. She said: "Oh, my little
girl 1 my pretty little girl ! where are you ? ' And that
would have wrung your hearts. I cry now when I
think of it. Our children, you see, are the very marrow
of our bones. — My poor Eustache 1 you are so handsome 1
If you only knew what a darling he is! Yesterday he
said to me, * I mean to be one of the city guard, I do.' Oh,
my Eustache ! if I were to lose you 1 — Chantefleurie got up
all at once and began to run about Eheims, shouting : " To
the gypsy camp ! to the gypsy camp ! Guard, burn the
witches ! ' The gypsies were gone. It was night. No
one could follow them. Next day, tw^o leagues away from
Eheims, on a heath between Gueux and Tilloy, were found
the remains of a great fire, some ribbons which had be-
longed to Paquette's child, drops of blood, and some goats’
dung. The night just passed happened to be a Satur-
day night. No one doubted any longer that the gypsies
had kept their Sabbath on that heath, and that they had

THE STORY OE A WHEATEN CAKE. 329

devoured the child in company with Beelzebub, as the
Mahometans do. When Chantefleurie heard these horrible
things, she did not shed a tear; she moved Iier lips as if
to speak, but could not. Next day her hair was gray.
On the following day she had disappeared.’’

‘'A terrible story indeed/’ said Oudarde, ‘'and one that
would make a Burgundian weep!”

“I am no longer surprised,” added Gervaise, “that the
fear of the gypsies haunts you so.”

“ And you had all the more reason,” continued Oudarde,
“ to run away with your Eustaclie just now, because these
are also Polish gypsies.”

“Not at all,” said Gervaise; “they say they came from
Spain and Catalonia.”

“ Catalonia ? That may be,” replied Oudarde ; “ Polonia,
Catalonia, Valonia, — those places are all one to me; I
always mix them up. There’s one thing sure; they are
gypsies.”

“ And their teeth are certainly long enough to eat little
children. And I should not be a bit surprised if Smeralda
ate a little too, for all her dainty airs. Her white goat
plays too many clever tricks to be all right.”

Mahiette walked on in silence. She was absorbed in
that sort of reverie which seems to be the continuation of
a painful story, and which does not cease until it has im-
parted its own emotion, throb by throb, to the innermost
fibres of the heart. Gervaise, however, addressed her :
“ And did no one ever know what became of Chante-
fleurie ? ” Mahiette made no answer. Gervaise repeated
the question, shaking her arm and calling her l)y name

as she did so. Mahiette seemed to wake from her
dream,

^‘What became of Chantefleiirie ? ” she said, mecliani-
cally repeating the words whose sound was still fresh in
her ear; then, making an effort to fix her attention upon
the meaning of the words, she said quickly, Oh, no one
ever knew.”

She added, after a pause, —

'‘Some said they saw her leave Eheims at dusk by
the Porte FIdchembaiilt ; others, at daybreak, by the old
Porte Basde. A poor man found her gold cross hanging to
the stone cross in the fair-grounds. It was that trinket
which caused her ruin in ’61. It was a gift from the hand-
some Vicomte de Cormontreuil, Iier first lover. Paquette
never would part with it, however poor she might be.
She clung to it like her own life. So, when this crovss was
found, we all thought that she was dead. Still, there were
people at Cabaret-les-Vautes wdio said they saw her pass
by on the road to Paris, \valking barefoot over the stones.
But in that case she must have left town by the Porte de
Vesle, and all these stories don’t agree ; or, rather, I be-
lieve slie did actually leave by the Porte de Vesle, but that
she left this world.”

I don’t understand you,” said Gervaise.

“ The Vesle,” replied Mahiette, with a melancholy smile,
“ is the river.”

" Poor Chantefieurie ! ” said Oudarde, with a shudder ;
“ drowned ! ”

“ Drowned I ” returned Mahiette ; “ and who could have
told good father Guyhertaut, when he fioated down the

THE STORY OF A WHEATEK CAKE. 331

river beneatli the Pont de Tinqneux, siiiging in liis b
that his dear little Paquette would one day pass under
that same bridge, but without boat or song?”

'' And the little shoe ? '' asked Gervaise.

It disappeared with the mother,” replied Mahietta
Poor little shoe ! ” said Oudarde.

Oudarde, a fat and tender-hearted woman, would have
been quite content to sigh in company with Mahiette;
but Gervaise, who was more curious, had not come to the
end of her questions.

And the monster ? ” she suddenly said to Mahiette.
What monster ? ” asked the latter.

The little gypsy monster left by the witches in Chante-
fleurie’s room in exchange for her daughter. What did
you do with it ? I really hope you drowned it too.”
'‘iNTot a bit of it,” replied Mahiette.

''What ! You burned it then ? After all, that was better.
A sorcerer's child!”

" ISTor that either, Gervaise. My lord the archbisliop
took an interest in the gypsy child ; he exorcised it, blessed
it, carefully took the devil out of the boy's body, and sent
him to Paris to be exposed upon the wooden bed at ISTotre-
Dame, as a foimdlihg.”

"These bishops,” grumbled Gervaise, "never do any-
thing like other people, just because they are so learned.
Just think, Oudarde, of putting the Devil among the found-
lings I For that little monster is sure to have been the
Devil. Well, Mahiette, what did they do with him in
Paris ? I 'm sure no charitable person would take him.”

" I don't know,” replied the native of Eheims ; " it was

NOTEE-DAME.

just at that very time that my husband bought the tabel-
iioirs office at Bern, two leagues away from town, and we
thought no more about the matter; particularly as near
Bern there are the two hills of Ceriiay, which quite hide
the spires of the Itheims cathedral,”

While talking thus, the three worthy women had
reached the Gibve, In their preoccupation, they had
passed the public breviary of the Tour-Eoland without
stopping, and were proceeding mechanically towards the
pillory, around which the crowd increased momentarily.
Probably the sight which at this instant attracted every
eye would have made them completely forget the Eat-Hole,
and the visit which they meant to pay, if the sturdy six-
year-old Eustaclie, whom Mahiette led by the hand, had not
suddenly reminded them of it by saying, as if some in-
stinct warned him that the Eat-Hole lay behind him,
' Mother, may I eat the cake now ? ”

Had Eustache been more crafty, that is to say less greedy,
he would have waited stiE longer, and would not have
risked the timid question, Mother, may I eat the cake
now?'’" until they were safe at home again, at Master
Andry MusniePs house, in the University, in the Eiie
Madame-la-Valence, when botli branches^ of the Seine and
the five bridges of the City would have been betwixt the
Rat-Hole and the cake.

This same question, a very rash one at the time that
Eustache asked it, roused Mahiette’s attention.

“ By tlie way,” she exclaimed, we are forgetting the re-
cluse ! Show me your Rat-Hole, that I may carry her my

cake.” ■

CAKE. P)33

'' Directly,” said Oudarde. '' It ’s a true charity.”

This was not at all to Eiistache’s liking.

" Oh, my cake I my cake !” he whined, himching up
first one shoulder and then the other, — always a sign of
extreme displeasure in such cases..

The three women retraced their steps, and, as they ap-
proached the Tour-Eoland, Oudarde said to tlie other two :

" It will never do for all three of us to peep in at the
hole at once, lest we should frighten the nun. You two
must pretend to be reading the Lord’s Prayer in the brevi-
ary while I put my nose in at the window ; tlie nun
knows me slightly. I’ll tell you when to come.”

She went to the window alone. As soon as she looked
in, profound pity was expressed in every feature, and her
bright frank face changed color as quickly as if it had
passed from sunlight into moonlight ; her eyes grew moist,
her mouth quivered as if she were about to weep. A
moment later, she put her finger to her lips and beckoned
to Mahiette.

Maliiette silently joined her, on tiptoe as if by the
bedside of a dying person.

It was indeed a sad sight which lay before the two
women, as they gazed without moving or breathing through
the grated window of the Eat-Hole.

The cell was small, wider than it was long, with a
vaulted roof, and seen from within looked like the inside
of an exaggerated Bishop’s mitre. Upon the bare stone
floor, in a corner, sat, or rather crouched, a woman. Her
chin rested on her knees, which her crossed arms pressed
closely against her breast Bent double in this manner,

KOTRE-DAME.

clatl in b}‘OW!i sackcloth, which covered her loosely from
h.eatl to foot, her long gray locks drawn forward and falling
over her face, down her legs to her feet, she seemed at first
sight some strange shape outlined against the dark hack-
ground of the cell, a .sort of blackish triangle, which the
rav of light entering at the window divided into two dis-
tinct bands of light and sliadowo She looked like one of
tliose spectres, half darkness and half light, which w’e see
in dreams, and in the extraordinary work of Goya, — pale,
motionless, forbidding, cowering upon a tomb or clinging
to the grating of a dungeon. It was neither man, nor
woman, nor living being, nor any definite form : it was a
figure ; a sort of vision in which, the real and the imagi-
nary were blended like twilight and daylight. Beneath her
dishevelled hair, which fell to the ground, the outlines of a
stern and emaciated profile were barely visible ; the tip of
one bare foot just peeped froln the hem of her garment,
seeming to be curled up on the hard, cold floor. The little
of human form which could be dimly seen beneath that
mourning garb made the beholder shudder.

This figure, which seemed rooted to the ground, appeared
to have neither motion, thought, nor breath. In that thin
sackcloth, in January, lying half naked on a granite floor,

* without fire, in the darkness of a dungeon, whose slanting
window never admitted the suu, only the icy blast, she
did not seem to suffer, or even to feel She seemed to
have been turned to stone like her cell, to ice like the
season. Her hands w^ere clasped, her eyes were fixed.
At the first glance, she seemed a spectre, at the second, a
statue.

THE STGEY OF A" WHEATEN .CAKE. : ' 335 '

And yet at intervals her blue lips were parted by a
breath/ arid timi bled I but they seemed as dead and as des-
titute of will as leaves blowing in the wind.

Yet her dull eyes gazed with an ineffable expression, a
deep, mournful, serious, perpetually fixed expression, on
a corner of the cell hidden from those outside ; her look
seemed to connect all the sombre thoughts of her distressed
soul with some mysterious object.

Such was the creature who was called ''the recluse”
from her habitation, and "the nun” from her dress.

The three women — for Gervaise had joined Mahiette and
Oiidarde — peered through the window. Their heads cut oft*
the faint light which entered the dungeon; but the wretched
inmate seemed unconscious of her loss, and paid no atten-
tion to them, " DonT disturb her,” said Oudarde in low
tones ; " she is in one of her ecstatic fits : she is praying.”

But Mahiette still gazed with ever-increasing anxiety
at that wan, wrinkled face, and those dishevelled locks,
and her eyes filled with tears. " How strange that would
be!” she muttered.

She put her head through the iron bars, and at last con-
trived to get a glimpse of the .corner upon which the un-
iiappy woman's eyes were forever riveted.

When she withdrew her head from the window, her face
was bathed in tears,

" What is that woman's name?” she asked Oudarde.

Oudarde answered, —

"We call her Sister Gudule ”

" And I ” returned Mahiette, — "I call her Paquette
Ohantefleurie.”

NOTRK-nAME.

Then, putting lier finger to her lip, she signed to the
aiaazed Oudarde to put her head through the aperture
and look.

Oudarde looked, and saw, in the corner upon which the
recluse’s eye was fixed in such sad ecstasy, a tiny pink
satin shoe, embroidered with gold and silver spangles.

Gervaise looked in after Oudarde, and then the three
women began to weep at the sight of that miserable
..mother.

However, neither their looks nor their tears disturbed
the recluse. Her hands were still clasped, her lips dum]>,
her eyes set ; and to those who knew her story it was
heartrending to see her sit and gaze at that little shoe.

The three had not yet breathed a word; they dared
■not speak, even in a whisper. This profound silence, this
great grief, this entire oblivion of all but one thing,
afiected them like the high altar at Easter or at Christ-
mas-tide. They were silent, absorbed, ready to fall upon
their knees. They felt as if they had just gone into
church on Holy Saturday and heard the Tenehrm.

At last Gervaise, the most curious, and consequently
the least sensitive of the three, made an attempt to
draw the recluse into conversation : '' Sister I Sister

Giidule 1

She repeated the call three times, raising her voice each
time. The recluse did not stir ; there was not a word, not
a look, not a sigh, not a sign of life.

Oudarde, in her turn, in a gentler and more affectionate
tone, said, ‘'GSxster! holy Sister Gudule!”

■ The same silence, the same absolute repose as before.

■ THE ' STOKY OF ' A- .-WHEATEN CAKE. / ' 337:

''What a strange womanl” cried Gervaise; "I don’t
believe she would mind a cannonade!'^

“ Perhaps she ’s deaf/’ said Oudarde.

" Maybe blind,” added Gervaise.

“Perliaps dead/’ said Mahiette.

Certainly, if the soul had not already quitted that inert,
torpid, lethargic body, it had at least withdrawn into it
and concealed itself in depths to which the perceptions of
the external organs did not penetrate.

"We shall have to leave the cake on the window-sill,”
said Oudarde; "but then some boy will steal it. How
can we rouse her?”

Enstache, who had thus far been absorbed in a little
wagon drawn by a big dog, which was just passing, sud-
denly noticed that his three companions were looking at
something through the window, and, seized by curiosity in
his turn, he scrambled upon a post, stood on tiptoe, and
put his fat rosy face to the opening, shouting, " Mother,
let me see, too ! ”

At the sound of this childish voice, clear, fresh, and
ringing, the recluse trembled. She turned her head with
the abrupt, quick motion of a steel spring, her long, thin
hands brushed the hair from her face, and she fixed her
astonished, unhappy, despairing eyes upon the child. The
look was like a flash of lightning.

"Oh, my God!” she instantly exclaimed, hiding her
head upon her knees, and it seemed as if her hoarse
voice tore her chest, " at least do not show me those of
others ! ”

" Good -morning, madame,” said the child, gravely.

NOTRE-DAME.

]]nt tlie shock had, as it were, aroused the recluse. A
long shudder ran through her entire frame from head to
foot; her teeth chattered; she half raised her head, and
said, as she pressed her elbows to her sides and took her
leet in her hands as if to warm them, —

Oh, how bitterly cold !

Poor woman 1 ” said Oudarde pitifully ; “ would you
like a little fire ? "

She shook her head in token of refusal.

Well,” added Oudarde, ofiering her a bottle, “ here is
some hippocras, which will warm you; drink/’

She again shook her head, looked steadily at Oudarde,
and answered, “ Water.”

Oudarde insisted. ‘‘ISTo, sister, water is no fit drink
for January. You must drink a little hippocras, and eat
this wlieaten cake, which we have made for you.”

She put aside the cake which Mahiette offered her, and
said, ‘^Some black bread.” , v;,,

Come,” said Gervaise, feeling a charitable impulse in
her tuns, and unfastening her woollen mantle, here is a
covering somewhat warmer than yours. Throw this over
your shouldei’s.”

She refused the mantle as she had the bottle and the
cake, and answered, ''A cloth.”

‘VBut,” resumed the kind-hearted Oudarde, "'you must
have seen that yesterday \vas a Iioliday.”

. "" I knew it,” said the recluse ; " for two days I have
had no wuiter in my jug.”

She added after a pause: ‘"On a holiday, every one
forgets me. They do well. Why should people remember

THE STORY OF A WHEATEN CAKE.

mo, who never think of them ? When tlie fire goes out,
the ashes are soon cold/’

And as if wearied by so many words, she let her head
fall upon her knees once more. The simple and chari-
table Oudarde, wlio interpreted her last words as another
complaint of the cold, answered innocently, “Then,
would n’t you like a little fire ? ”

“ Fire 1 ” said the recluse in a singular tone j “ and will
you give me a little for the poor baby too, — the baby
who lias been under ground these fifteen years ? ”

She trembled in every limb, her voice quivered, her
eyes hashed ; she had risen to her knees ; she suddenly
stretched her thin white hand towards the child, who was
looking at her in surprise.

“ Take away that child 1 ’’ she cried. '' The gypsy
woman will soon pass by,”

Then she fell face downwards, and her forehead struck
the floor, with the sound of one stone upon another. The
three women thought her dead. But a moment later she
stirred, and they saw her drag herself upon her hands
and knees to the corner where the little shoe lay. They
dared not look longer ;*they turned away their eyes ; but
they heard a thousand kisses and a thousand sighs,
mingled with agonizing cries and dull blows like those of
a head dashed against a wall; then after one of these
blows, so violent that they all three started, they heard
nothing more.

“ Has she killed herself ? ” said Gervaise, venturing to
put her head through the bars. “ Sister ! Sister Qudiile 1 ”

“ Sister Gudule 1” repeated Oudarde.

MO

NOTRE-DAME.

Oh, Heavens 1 She does not move ! ” exclaimed Ger-
vaise. Can she indeed be dead ? Gudule ! Gudule 1 ”
JIahiette, until now so choked by emotion that she
could not speak, made an effort. '^Wait a minute/' she
said; then going to the window, she cried, ‘'Paquette!
Paquette Chantefieurie f”

A child who innocently blows on an ill-lighted fire-
cracker and makes it explode in his face, is no more
alarmed than was Mahiette at the effect of the name so
suddenly flung into Sister Gudiile's cell
The recluse trembled from head to’ foot, sprang to her
bare feet, and rushed to the window with such flaming
eyes, that Mahiette, Oudarde, the other woman and the
child retreated to the farthest edge of the quay.

But still the forbidding face of the recluse remained
pressed against the window -bars. “ Oh ! oh ! ” she

THE STORY OF, A WHEATKN CAKE. 341

screamed with a terrible laugh; “ the gypsy woman colls
mel” ' '

At this instant the scene which was passing a.t the
pillory caught her wild eye. Her brow wrinkled with
horror; she stretched her skeleton arms iroin her cell,
and cried in a voice which sounded like a death-rattle,
‘^Have you come again, you daughter of Egypt ? Is it
you who call me, you child-stealer ? Well I may you be
accursed ! accursed ! accursed ! accursed I ''

A TEAR EOE A DROP OE WATER.

T HESE! words were, so to speak, the connecting link
between two scenes which up to this instant had
gone on simultaneously, each upon its own particular
stage : one, of which we have just read, at the Eat-Hole;
the other, of which we shall now read, at the pillory.
The former was witnessed only hy the three women whose
acquaintance the reader has just made ; the spectators of
the latter consisted of the crowd of jDeople whom we saw
some time since gathering in the Grfeve, about the gibbet
and the pillory.

This crowd, whom the sight of the four officers posted
at the four corners of the pillory ever since nine in the
morning led to expect an execution of some sort, perhaps

A TExiE FOE A DEOP OF WATER.

not a iiaiigiiig, but a whipping, cropping of ears, or .soine-
thiiig of the sort, — this crowd had grown so rapidly that
the four officers, too closely hemmed in, were more than
once obliged to drive the people back by a free use of
their whips and their horses’ heels.

The populace, well accustomed to wait for public execu-
tions, betrayed no great impatience. They amused them-
selves by looking at the pillory, a very simple structure
consisting of a cube of masonry some ten feet high, and
hollow within. A very steep flight of stairs of unhewn
stone, called tlie ladder, led to the upper platform, upon
which was a horizontal wheel made of oak. The victim
was bound to this wlieel in a kneeling posture, with
his hands behind him, A wooden sliaft, set in motion
by a capstan concealed inside the macliine, made the
wheel revolve horizontally, thus presenting the prisoner’s
face to each side of the square in timi. This was called
turning ” a criminal.

It is evident that the pillory of the Grbve was far from
possessing all the attractions of the pillory of the Markets.
There was nothing architectural or monumental about it.
It had no roof with an iron cross, no octagonal lantern, no
slender columns expanding at the edge of the roof into
capitals composed of acanthus-leaves and flowers, no huge
fantastic gutter-spouts, no carved wood-work, no delicate
sculpture cut deep into the stone.

Here the spectator must needs be content with the four
rough walls, two stone facings, and a sliabby stone gibbet,
plain and bare.

The treat would have been a sorry one for lovers of

344

NOTEE-DAME.

Gothic architecture. It is true that no one was ever less
interested in iiioiniments than your good cockney of the
Middle Ages, who paid very little heed to the beauty of
a pillory.

The victim appeared at last, tied to the tail of a cart ;
and when he had been hoisted to the top of the platform,
where he could be seen from all parts of the square bound
to the wheel of the pillory with straps and ropes, a pi’o-
digious hooting, mingled with shouts and laughter, burst
from the spectators. They had recognized Quasimodo.

It was indeed he. It was a strange reverse. He was
now pilloried on the same place where he was the day
before hailed, acclaimed, and proclaimed Pope and Prince
of Fools,' Lord of Misrule, and attended by the Duke of
Egypt, the King of Tunis, the Emperor of Galilee! One
thing is certain ; there was not a soul in the crowd, not
even himself, in turn triumphant and a victim, who could
distinctly draw a mental comparison between these two
situations. Gringoire and his philosophy were wanting to
the spectacle.

Soon Michel Koiret, sworn trumpeter to our lord the
king, imposed silence on all beholders, and proclaimed the
sentence, according to the provost’s order and command.
He then retired behind the cart, with his men in livery
coats.

Quasimodo, utterly impassive, never winked. All re-
sistance on his part was rendered impossible by what was
then called, in the language of criminal law, the vehe-
mence and firmness of the bonds;” which means that the
chains and thongs probably cut into his flesh. This, by

A TEAR EOR A DROP OP WATEE

the bye, is a tradition of the jail and tlie convict prison
wliicli is not yet lost, and which the hanclcuHs still pre-
serve as a precious relic among us, civilized, mild, and
Iminane as we are (not to mention the guillotine and the
galleys).

He allowed liimself to be led, pushed, carried, lifted,
tied, and re-tied. His face revealed notliing more than tlie
surprise of a savage or an idiot. He was known to he
deaf; he seemed to be blind.

ance. He was stripped of

shirt and doublet to the waist; he submitted. He was
b(jund with a fresh system of straps and buckles ; he
suffered himself to be buckled and bound. Only from
time to time he breathed heavily, like a calf whose head
hangs dangling from the back of the butcher's cart.
''The booby 1” said Jelian FroUo du Moulin to his friend

'34S

NOTRE-DAME.

Robin Poiissepaiii (for the two students had followed the
victim, as a matter of coarse); he understands no more
about it than a cockchafer shut up in a box I

A shout of laughter ran through the crowd when
Qiiasimodo’vS hump, his camel breast, his horny, hairy
shoulders, were bared to view. During this burst of
merriment a man in the city livery, short of stature, and
strong, mounted the platform and took his place by the
prisoner’s side. His name was soon circulated among
the spectators. It was Master Pierrat Torterue, sworn
torturer of the Cliatelet.

He began by placing on one corner of the pillory a
black liour-glass, the upper , part of which was full of red
sand, which dropped slowly into the lower half ; then he
took off his parti-colored coat, and there was seen hanging
from his right hand a slim, slender wliip with long white
thongs, shining, knotted, braided, armed with metal tij)s.
With his left hand he carelessly roiled his right shirt-sleeve
up to his armpit.

Meanwhile Jehan Frollo shouted, liiting his lair curly
head high above the crowd (he had climbed Robin Poiisse-
pain's shoulders foi' tlie express purpose), ^‘Come and
see, gentlemen and ladies ! They are going straightway
to hog Master Quasimodo, tlie belbritiger of my brother
the archdeacon of Jusas, a strange specimen of Oriental
architecture, witli a dome for his back and twisted col-
umns for legs.”

All the people laughed, especially the children and the

young girls.

At last the executioner stamped his foot. The wheel

A TEAK FOK A DROP OF WATER.

"347

began to turn. Quasimodo reeled in spite of Lis bonds.
The astoiiislinieiit suddenly dejucted upon bis inisshapeii
face redoubled the bursts of laughter around liini.

KSuddenly, just as the wheel in its revolution presented
to Master Pierrat Quasimodo's mountainous back, Master
Pierrat raised his arm; the thin lashes hissed through tlie
air like a brood of vipers, and fell furiously upon the
wretched man's shoulders.

Quasimodo started as if roused abruptly from a dream.
He began to understand. He writhed in his bonds ; sur-
prise and pain distorted the muscles of his fa(3e, but he
did not heave a sigh. He merely bent his head back, to
the right, then to the left, shaking it like a bull stung in
the flank by a gad-fly.

A second blow Ibllowed the first, then a third, and
another, and another, and so on and on. The wheel did
not cease from turning, or the blows from raining down.

Soon the blood spurted; it streamed in coimtless rivu-
lets over the hunchback's swarthy shoulders; and the
slender thongs, as they rent the air, sprinkled it in drops
among the crowd.

Quasimodo had resumed, apparently at least, his fomer
impassivity. He had tried at first, secretly and without
great visible effort, to burst his bonds. His eye kindled,
his muscles stiffened, his limbs gathered, all their force,
and the straps and clmius stretched. The stiniggle was
mighty, prodigious, desperate; but the tried and tested
fetters of the provosty held firm. They cracked ; and
that was all. Quasimodo fell back exhausted. Surprise
gave way, upon Ms feature»% to a look of l)itter and pro-

348

KOTRE-BAME.

found dejection. He closed Ins single eye, dropped his
head upon liis breast, and feigned death.

Thenceforth he did not budge, Nothing could wring a
movement from him, — neither his blood, which still f^o^Yed,
nor the blows, which increased in fury, nor the rage of the
executioner, who became excited and intoxicated by his
work, nor the noise of the horrid lashes, keener and sharper
than the stings of wasps.

At last an usher from the Ghatelet, dressed in black,
mounted on a black horse, who had been posted beside the
ladder from the beginning of the execution of the sentence,
extended his ebony wand towards the hour-glass. The
executioner paused. The wheel stopped. Quasimodo's
eye reopened slowly.

The rtagellation was ended. Two attendants of the
executioner washed the victim’s bleeding shoulders, rubbed
them with some salve which at once closed all the wounds,
and threw over his back a piece of yellow cotton cloth cut
after the pattern of a priest’s cope. Meanwhile Pierrat
Torterue let his red lashes soaked with blood drip upon
the pavement.

But all was not over for Quasimodo. He had still to
spend in the pillory that hour so judiciously added by
Master Florian Barbcdienne to the sentence of Master
Robert d’Estouteville, — all to the greater glory of Jean
de Cumene’s old physiological and psychological pun :
'' Surchis ahtirdics”

The hour-glass was therefore turned, and the hunchback
was left bound to the plank as before, in order that justice
might be executed to the ritmost.

A TEAR FOR A DROP OF WATEl^.

349

The people, particularly iu the Middle Ages, were to
society what the child is to a family. So long as they re-
luain in their primitive condition of ignorance, of moral
and intellectual nonage, it may be said of them as of a
child, —

That age is without pity,”

We liave already shown that Quasimodo was tlie object
of universal hatred, — for more than one good reason, it is
true. There was hardly a single spectator in the crowd
wlio had not — or did not think he had — grounds for
complaint against tlie malicious liunchback of Notre-Daine.
Every one was delighted to see him in the pillory; and
the severe punishment which he had just received, and the
piteous state in which it had left him, far from softening
the hearts of the populace, had made their hatred keener
by adding to it a spice of merriment.

Thus, “ public vengeance,’' as the legal jargon still styles
it, once satisfied, a thousand private spites took their turn
at revenge. Here, as in the Great Hall, the women made
themselves especially conspicuous. All bore him a grudge,
— some for his mischief, others for his ugliness. The
latter were the more furious.

'' Oh, you image of Antichrist !” said one.

Broomstickhider ! ” cried another'.

What a fine tragic face 1 " yelled a third. It would
surely make you Lord of Misrule, if to-day were only
yesterday.”

'' That ’s right,” added an old woman. Tins is the pil-
lory face. When shall we have the gallows face ? ”

'' When shall we see you buried a hundred feet below

350

NOTBE-DAME.

ground, with your big bell upon your head, you cursed
bell-ringer? ”

And to think that it ’s this demon that rings the
Angelas I ”

Oh, you deaf man ! you blind man ! you hunchback !
you monster I

And the two students, Jehaii du Moulin and Eobin
I^oussepain, sang at the top of their voices, the old popular
retrain : —

“ A halter for the gallows-bird I
A fagot for the ugly ape ! ”

Countless other insults rained upon him, mingled with
hoots, curses, laughter, and occasional stones.

Quasimodo was deaf, but his sight was capital, and the
fury of the mob was no less forcibly painted on tlieir
faces than in their words. Besides, the stones which
struck him explained the peals of laughter.

He bore it for a time ; but little by little his patience,
which had resisted the torturer's whip, gave way, and re-
belled against all these insect stings. The Asturian bull,
wliich pays ],)iit little heed to the attacks of the picador,
is maddened by the dogs and the banderillos.

At first he glanced slowly and tlireateniiigly around
the crowd ; but, bound fast as lie was, his glance was
impotent to drive away those hies which galled his
wounds. Tlieu he struggled in his fetters, and his frantic
efforts made the old pillory wheel creak upon its tim-
bers. All this only increased the shouts and derision of
the crowd.

Then the wretched man, unable to break the collar

A TEAK FOR A DROP OF WxVTER. 351

which held hini chained like a wild beast, became quiet
again ; only at intervals a sigh of rage lieaved ids breast.
His face showed no trace of niortificatioii or shame. He
was too far removed from the existing state of society,
and too nearly allied to a state of nature, to know what
shame was. Besides^ it is doubtful if infamy be a thing
which can be felt by one afliicted with that degree of
deformity. But rage, hate, despair, slowly veiled the
hideous face with a cloud which grew darker and darker,
more and more heavily charged with an electricity re-
vealed by countless flashes from the eye of the Cyclop.

However, this cloud was lightened for a moment as a
mule passed through the crowd, bearing a priest on his
back. As soon as he saw that mule and that priest, the
poor siiflerer’s lace softened. The fury which convulsed it
gave way to a strange smile, full of ineffable sweetness,
affection, and tenderness. As the priest approached, this
smile became more pronounced, more distinct, more ra-
diant. It w'as as if the unhappy man hailed the coming
of a Saviour. Yet, when the mule was near enough to the
pillory for his rider to recognize the prisoner, the priest
cast down his eyes, turned back abruptly, spurred bis ani-
mal on either side as if in haste to avoid lumiiliating
appeals, and very far from anxious to be greeted and recog-
nized by a poor devil in such a pliglit.

The priest was the archdeacon Don Claude Frolic.

The cloud grew darker than ever upon the face of
Quasimodo. The smile lingered for some time, although
it became bitter, dejected, profoundly sad.

Time passed. He had been there at least an hour and a

352

’ -KOTBE-BAME.

half, wounded, ill-treated, incessantly mocked, and almost
stoned to death.

Suddenly he again struggled in his chains with re-
newed despair, widch made all the timbers that held him
quiver ; and breaking the silence which he had hitherto
obstinately kept, he cried in a hoarse and furious voice
mure like the bark of a dog than a human cry, and which
drowned the sound of the hooting, '' Water T’

This exclamation of distress, far from exciting compas-
sion, only increased the amusement of the good Parisian
populace who siuTOunded the laddei‘, and who, it must be
confessed, taken in the mass and as a multitude, were
at this time scarcely less cruel and briitisli than that horri-
ble tribe of Vagrant Vagabonds to whom we have already
introduced the reader and who were simply the lowest
stratum of the people. Not a voice was raised around the
wTetched suilerer, except to mock at his thirst Certainly
he was at this moment more grotesque and repulsive than
he was pitiable, with his livid and streaming face, his wild
eye, liis mouth foaming with rage and suffering, and his
tongue protruding. It must also be acknowledged, that,
even had there been in tlie throng any charitable soul
tempted to give a cup of cold water to the miserable
creature in his agony, so strong an idea of shame and
ignominy -svas attached to the infamous steps of the pil-
lory, that this alone would liave sufficed to repel the Good
Barnaritan.

In a few minutes Quasimodo cast a despairing look
upon the crowd, and repeated in a still more heart-rending
Yoice^ " Water V\ '

A TEAR FOR A DROP OF WxVIER,

Every one laughed.

Drink that ! ” shouted Eobin Poussepain, flinging in his
face a sponge which had been dragged through the gutter.
“ There, you deaf monster ! I owe you something.''

A woman aimed a stone at his head: —

That will teach you to wake us at night with your
ciu’vSed chimes I"

'"Well, my boy!" howled a cripple, striving to reacli
him with his crutch, "^will you cast spells on us again
from the top of the towers of NTotre-Daine ? "

'' Here ’s a porringer

to drink out of!" added ^

“'Twas you who made
my wife give birth to a
double-headed child, just

the gasping Quasimodo '

saw the crowd separate.

A young girl^ oddly dressed, stepped from their midst
Slie was accompanied by a little white goat with gilded
horns, and held a tambourine in her hand.

NOTRE-DAME.

Quasimodo’s eye gleamed. It was the gypsy girl whom
he had tried to carry off the night before, — a freak for
which he dimly felt that he was even now being pun-
ished ; which ^vas not in the least true, since he w^'as only
punished for the misfortune of being deaf, and having been
tried by a deaf judge. He did not doubt that she too
came to be avenged, and to take her turn at him with
the rest.

He watched her nimbly climb the ladder. Eage and
spite choked him. He longed to destroy the pillory; and
had the lightning of bis eye had power to blast, the gypsy
girl would have been reduced to ashes long before she
reached the platform.

Without a word she approached the sufferer, who vainly
writhed and twisted to avoid her, and loosening a gourd
from her girdle, she raised it gently to the parched lips
of the miserable wretch.

Then from that eye, hitherto so dry and burning, a
great tear trickled, and rolled slowly down the mivsshapen
face, so long convulsed with despair. It was perhaps the
first that the unfortunate man had ever shed.

But he forgot to drink. The gypsy girl made her
customary little grimace of impatience, and smilingly
pressed the neck of the gourd to Quasimodo’s jagged
moutli.

He drank long draughts ; his thirst was ardent.

When he had done, the poor wretch put out his black
lips, doubtless to kiss the fair hand which Iiad helped him.
But the girl, perhaps not quite free from distrust, and
mindful of the violent attempt of the previous night, with-

A TEAK EOIl A DKOP OF WATER. $5u

drew her hand with the terrified gesture of a child who
fears being bitten by a wild animal.

Then the poor deaf man fixed upon her a look of
reproach and unutterable sorrow.

It would anywhere have been a touching sight, to see
tliis lovely girl, fresh, pure, charming, and yet so weak,
thus devoutly hastening to the help of so much misery,
deformity, and malice. Upon a pillory, the sight was
sublime.

The people themselves were affected by it, and began
to clap their hands and shout, —

"Noell Noel!"

It was at this instant that the recluse saw, from the
window of her cell, the gypsy girl upon the pillory, and
hurled her ominous curse at her head: —

May you be accursed, daughter of Egypt 1 accursed !
accursed ! "

END OF THE STORY OF THE CxlKE.

E smeralda turned J>ale, and descended from the
pillory with faltering steps. The voice of the re-
cluse still pursued her: —

“ Gome down I come down, you gypsy thief ! Yon will
go up again 1 ”

The nun has one of her ill turns to-day/’ muttered the
people, and they said no more; for women of this sort
were held in much awe, which made them sacred. NTo
one liked to attack those who prayed night and clay.

The hour had come to release Quasimodo. He was
unbound, and the moh dispersed.

Near the great bridge, Mahiette, who was returning
home with her two companions, stopped suddenly : —

• “ By the way, Eustache, what have you done with
the cake ? ”

'"Mother,” said the child, "while you were talking to
the woman in that hole, , there came a big dog and bit
a piece out of my cake; so then I took a bite too,”

END OF THE STOHY OF THE CAKE

“ What, sir I she continued, '' did you eat it all ? "

“ Motlier, it was the dog. I told him not to eat it,
but he wmuld n’t mind me. So then I took a bite too ,
that ’s all ! ”

'' What a bad boy you are I ” said liis rnotlier, smiling
and scolding at once. Only think, Oudarde ! he ate
every cherry on the tree in our orchard at Charlerange ;
so his grandfather says that he is sure to be a soldier.
Let me catch you at it again, Master Eustache! Oet
along, you greedy boy • ”

NOTRE -DAME BE PARIS

BOOK SEVENTH

ON THE DANGER OP CONFIDING A SECRET TO
A GOAT.

^EV.ERAL weeks had passed.

It was early in March. The sun, wliich Diibartas,
that classic father of periphrase, had not yet dubbed

KOTEE-DAME.

.,;2

grand duke of candles/’ was none tlie less bright
and gay. It was one of those spring days which are so full
of sweetness and beauty tliat all Paris, flocking into the
squares and parks, keeps holiday as if it w^ere a Sun-
day. On such clear, warm, peaceful days, there is one par-
ticular hour when the porch of hTotre-Daine is especially
worthy of admiration. It is the moment when the sun,
already sinking towards the west, almost exactly faces
the cathedral. Its rays, becoming more and more level,
withdraw slowly from the pavement of the square, and
climb the perpendicular face of the church, the shadows
setting ofl' the countless figures in high relief, while the
great central rose-window flames like the eye of a Cyclop
lighted up by reflections from his forge.

It W'as just that hour.

Opposite the lofty cathedral, reddened by the setting
sun, upon the stone balcony built over the porch of a
handsome Gothic house at the corner of the square and
the Eue du Parvis, a group of lovely young girls were
laughing and chatting gracefully and playfully. By the
length of the veil which hung from the peak of their
pointed coif, twulied with pearls, dowm to their heels,
by tlie fineness of the embroidered tucker wliich covered
their shoulders, but still revealed, in the pleasing fashion
of the day, the swell of their fair virgin bosoms, by the
ricliiiess of their under petticoats, even costlier than their
upper garments (w’^onderful refinement!), by the gauze,
the silk, the velvet in which they were arrayed, and
especially by the whiteness of their hands, which proved
that they led a life of idle ease, it was easy to guess that

1?HE;'I)AI^?GEE OF.GON-FIDING A SKdiET, KlW

these wore ricli heiresses. They were in fact Ihiiiioiselie
Fl(3ur-de"Ly8 de Oondeiaurier and iior euiui)ai!iuiis, iJiane
de Ohristeiiii. Anielotte de Moiiiraichel, (.'uloiahe de Gaille-
fentaiue, and the little de Chariipehevrier, ail daaehters isf
liobie houses, just now visiting the widowed Madante de
(rondelaurier, on account of Muasoigneur de ileanj<,ni and
iiis wife, who were coming to Paris in April to rhoose
maids of lionor to meet the Dauphiuess ]\lai‘guurite in
Picardy and receive her from the hands of the Flemings.
Now, all the country sCtuires for thirty miles around as-
pired to win this favor for their daughters, and many of
tiiem had. already been brought or sent to Paris. Tlie
damsels in question were intrusted by their parents to
the discreet and reverend care of Madame Alo’ise de (lon-
delaurier, the widow of a former officer of the king’s cross-
bowmen, living in retirement, with her only daiightev, hi
her house on the square in front of FTotre-Dame.

The balcony upon which the young girls sat opened
from a room richly hung with fawn-colored Flemish
leather stamped with golden foliage. The transverse
beams on the ceiling diverted the eye by countless gro-
tesque carvings, painted and gilded. Splendid enamels
glittered here and there upon sculptured presses. A.
boar’s head made of earthenware crowned a superb .skpv
board, the two steps of which showed that the mistress
of the house was the wife or widow of a knight banneret.
At the end of the room, beside, a tall chimney-piece cov-
ered with . armorial bearings and escutcheons, sat, in a
rich red velvet arimchair, Madame de Gondelaurier, whose
fifty-five years were as plainly written in her garments as

4 N0TKE~1)AME.

on her face. Near her stood a young man of iiristocratii^,
though somewhat arrogant and swaggering mien, — one of
those line fellows about whom all women agree, although
serious men and physiognomists shrug their shoulders at
tlienn This youthful cavalier wore the brilliant uniform
of a captain of the archers of the household troops, which
is too much like the dress of Jupiter, <]escribe(l in tlie first
})art of this story, for us to inflict a second description of it
upoti the reader.

Tlie damsels were seated, some in the room, some upon
tlie balcony, the former upon squares of Utrecht vehet
with golden corner-pieces, the latter on oaken stools carved
with flowers and figures. Each held upon her knees a por-
tion of a large piece of tapestry, at which they were all
working together, and a long end of which trailed over
the matting that covered the floor.

They talked together in tlie undertone and with tlie
suppressed laughter common to a group of young girls
when there is a young man among tliem. The young
man whose presence sufflced to call forth all these femi-
nine wiles seemed, for his part, to pay but little heed
to them ; and while these lovely girls vied witli one
another in trying to attract Ms attention, he seemed
cMefly occupied in rubbing up his belt-buckle with his
buckskin glove.

From time to time the elderly lady addressed , some
remark to him in a very low voice, and be replied as best
he could, with awkward and forced courtesy. By Madame
Aloise’s smile>s and little significant signs, as well as by
the glances which she cast at her daughter Fleiir-de-Lys

■THE DANGER OF CONFIDING SECRET:, . ETC.

while she whispered to the eaptiiiu, it was easy lu .seti
that she was talking of the recent betrothal, and of tlic
marriage, doubtless to come off soon, between the young
man and Fieur-de-Lys ; and by the ollicers coldness
and embarrassment, it was plain that on liis side at
least there was no c|uestion of love. His whole manner
expressed a weariness and constraint such as the young
ollicers of our day would aptly translate by saying that he
was ‘‘ deucedly bored 1 ”

The good lady, utterly infatuated with her daughter,
like the silly mother that she was, did not perceive the
officer’s lack of enthusiasm, and did her best to point out
to liiui in a whisper the infinite perfection with which
Fleur-de-Lys plied her needle or wound her skeins of
silk.

There, cousin,” she said, pducking Iiim by the sleeve
that she might speak in Ids ear, “just look at her now!
See how gracefully she stoops 1 ”

“ To be sure,” replied the young man ; and he relapsed
into his cold and careless silence.

A moment after, he was forced to bend anew, and Dame
Aloise said : —

“Did you ever see a merrier or more attractive fiee
than that of your betrothed ? Could any one liave a
fairer, whiter skin ? Are ift those clever bands ; and
is n’t her neck a perfect match in grace for a swan’s ?
How I envy you at times! and ho\v lucky it is for yon
that you are a man, wicked scamp that you are 1 Is n’t
my Fleur-de-Lys adorably lovely, and are n’t you dead
in love with her ? ” , ,

X<>THE-*I>A5IE.

ur i'uurse,’' lie replied* with liis mind upon other

t hi rig’s.

‘‘ Ihit why don’t you talk to her?” vsuddenly ohserved
.MuJiune Aloise, giving him a push, '' Say something to
!ie!‘; you are wurideifully sli}^ all of a sudden”

We can assure our readers that shyness was neither one
nl" tlie cajitaiu s failings nor good points; hut he tried to
do what was required of him.

Fair eousin,” said he* approachiug Fleur-de-Lys* '' what
is the subject of your tapestry-work ?”

^'Fa,ir cousin” answered Fleur-de-Lys in an injured
tone., I have loki you three times already: it is Nep-
tune’s grotto.”

It was plain that Fleur-de-Lys was far more clear-
sighted than her mother in regard to the captain’s cold
and careless manners. He felt that he must needs make
a little conversation.

And what is all this Neptiine-work for ?” he asked.

'' For the Ahbi?y of Saint- Antoine des Champs*” said
Fleur-de-Lys* without raising her eyes.

The captain picked up a corner of the taj^estry.

'' And who* my ftiir cousin, is this fat fellow with puffy
cheeks, blowing liis trumpet so vigorously?”

That is Triton*” she answered

There was still a somewhat offended tone about Fleur-
de-Lys' brief words. The captain saw tliat he must abso-
lutely whisper something in lier ear, — a compliment* a
bit of uousense* never mind what. He bent towards her
accordingly* hut his imagination suggested nothing ten-
derer or more lamiliar than this : "'Why does your mother

THE HANGEH OF CONFIDING A SECRET, ETC.

always wear a petticoat wroiiglifc witli coats-or-arras, sncli
as our grandmotliers wore in tlie time of Cliaiies VI f, ?
Do tell her, lair cousin, tliat it is no longer tht3 iaslnon,
and that her laurel-tree and her hinges emblazoned all
over lier gown make her look like a walking mantd-
■piece. Eeally, nobody sits upon tlieir banner in that way
now, I swear tliey don’t!”

Fleur-dci-Lys raised her lovely eyes full of re]>roaeli.

‘Ms that all you have to swear to me ?” she said in a
low voice.

Meantime good Dame Aloise, enchanted to see them
chatting thus confidentially, said, as she pla}Td with the
clasps of her prayer-book, —

“ What a touching picture of love ! ”

The captain, more and more embarrassed, fell back on
the tapestry. That really is a beautiful piece of work ! ”
he exclaimed.

Upon this remark, Colombe de Gaillefontaine, anotlier
charming, fair-haired, white-skinned girl, in a liigh-necked
blue damask gown, timidly ventured to address Fleur-de-
Lys, in the hope that the handsome captain would reply :
“ My dear Gondelaurier, have you seen the tapestries at
the Eoche-Guyon house ? ”

“ Is n’t tliat the house with the garden, which belongs to
the linen-dealer of the Louvre?” asked Diane de Chris-
teuil with a laugh ; for she had fine teeth, and consequently
laughed on every occasion.

And where there is that big old tower belonging to tlie
ancient wall of Paris ” added Amelotte de Montmicheb a
pretty, curly-haired, rosy-cheeked . brunette, who was as

NOTEE-BAMB.

■s

much given to sighing as the other was to laughing, with-
out knowing why.

My dear Colombe/’ put in Dame Aloise, are you talk-
ing of the liouse which belonged to M. de Bacqueville in
the reign of King Charles YI. ? It does indeed contain
some superb high-warp tapestries.”

Charles YI. ! Charles YI. I ” muttered the young cap-
taiu, twirling his mustache. '' Heavens 1 ^Yhat a mem-
ory the good lady lias for by-gone tilings I ”

Madanie de Cfondelaurier went on : “ Beautiful tapes-
tries, indeed. Such magnificent work, that it is thought to
be unique I”

At this instant E^ranghre de Champchevrier, a slender
little girl of seven, who was gazing into tlie square through
the trefoils of the balcony railing, cried out, —

“ Oh, look, pretty godmanima Fleur-de-Lys, see that
dear dtincing-giii dancing clown there on tlie pavement,
and playing on tlie tambourine among those common

The shrill jingle of a tambourine was in fact lieard by
all

Some gypsy girl,” said Fleur-de-Lys, turning noncha-
lantly towards the square.

‘‘ Let us see ! let us see I ” exclaimed her lively com-
])anioDs; and they all ran to the edge of the balcony,
while Fleui'-de-Lys, musing over her lover's coldness,
followed them slowly, and her lover, relieved by this
incident, wliich cut short an embarrassing conversation,
to tlie iarther end of the room with the satisfied
air of a soWier released from duty., Yet it was a delightful

,T1I.E ' .I)A,NGEE OF ■■CONFIDING A SEt'’IiF/r, F/ir.

0

and an easy iliity to wait upon the fair Fleiu-de-Lys, and
3(j it had oiice seemed to him ; but the ca|)taii! had
? 4 ;raduall.y wearied of it ; the prospect of a speedy marriage
grew' less and leSvS attractive clay by day. Besides, he was
of an inconstant humor, and — must eve own it? — his
taste w'as soinewdiat vulgar. Although of very noljie birth,
he had contracted w-hile in harness more than one of the
habits of tlie common soldier. He loved the tavern and
all its accompaniments. He was never at his ease except
among coarse witticisms, military gallantries, easy-goiiig
beauties, and facile concpiests. He Iiad received some
education and some polish from his family ; but he had
roamed the country too young, joined the garrison too
young, and every day the veneer of the gentleman was
worn away a little more by the hard friction of his
military baldric. Although lie still visited her occasionally,
from a lingering sjiark of common respect, he felt doubly
embarrassed in Fleui>de~Lys’ presence: first, because by
dint of distributing his love in all sorts of places he had
very little left for her ; and next, because amid so many
stately, starclied, and modest dames he trembled contin-
ually lest his lips, accustomed to oaths, should suddenly
lose ail restraint and break out into the language of tlie
tavern. Fancy what the effect would be 1

However, with all this were mingled great preten-
sions to elegance in dress and to a fine appearance. Let
those who can reconcile these things. I am only tlie
historian.

He had been standing for some moments, thinking or
not thinking, leaning silently, against the carved chimney-

10

NOTRE-BAME.

pi( 3 ce, when Fleur-de-Lys, turning suddenly, spoke to liiin.
After all, the poor girl only looked black at him in self-
defence.

Fair cousin, did n't you tell us of a little gypsy girl
whom you rescued from a dozen robbers some two months
since, while you were on the night patrol ? ”

'' I think I did, fair cousin,” said the captain.

‘^Well,” she continued, “it may be that same gypsy
girl who is dancing in the squai'e below. Come and see
if you recognize her, fair Cousin Phoebus ! ”

He perceived a secret desire for reconciliation in this
gentle invitation to return to her side, and in the pains
she took to call him by his Christian name. Captain
Plimbus de Chateaupers (for it is he whom the reader has
had before him from the beginning of this chapter) slowly
approached the balcony, “There,” said Pleiir-de-Lys ten-
derly, laying her hand upon Phcebus" arm, “ look at that
little thing dancing in the ring. Is that your gypsy
girl 1 ”

PlKchns looked, and said, —

“YcvS; I know her by her goat.”

“Oli, yes! what a pretty little goat!” said Arnelotte,
clasping her hands in admiration.

“Are its horns really, truly gold ?” asked Ikiranghre.
Witliout nioviiig from her easy-chair, Dame Aloi’se took
up the word : “ Is n’t it one of those gypsies who came
here last year through the Porte Gibard ? ”

“Mother,” said Fleur-de-Lys, gently, “that gate is now
called Porte irErifer.”

Mademoiselle de Gondelaurier knew how much her

THE DAKGEU' OF .GONFIOIHO' A SECRET,' ETC. :11

irxother's supeEuinuated modes of speech slitxeked tlic
captain. In fact, he began to sneer, and muttered be-
tween ids teetli: “ Porte Gibard! Porte Gibard ! That’s
to admit King Charles VI. T’

'‘Godmarnma,” cried Bdranghre, whose restless eyes
were suddenl}^ raised to the top of the towers of Xoire-
Bame, what is that black man doing up there ? ’’

All the girls looked up. A man was indeed leaning o!i
his elbows on the topmost balustrade of the liorthern
tower, overlooking the Grbve. He was a priest. His
dress was distinctly visible, and his lace rested on hi.s
hands. He was as motionless as a statue. His eye was
fixed intently on the square.

There was sometldng in his immobility like a kite
wlucli has just discovered a nest of sparrows, and gazes
at it.

It is the archdeacon of Josas ” said Fleiir-de-Lys,

‘‘ You have good eyes if you can recognize him from
this distance!’' remarked Mademoiselle Gaillefonhiine.

“ How he watches the little dancer,” added Diane de
GhristeuiL

“ The gypsy girl had better beware,” said Fleur-de-Lys ;
“ for 1)0 is not fond of gypsies.”

“’Tis a great pity the man should stare at her
so,” added Amclotte do Montmicliel; “for she dances
ravish ingiy.”

“ Fair Cousin Pheebus,” suddenly said Fleur-de-Lys, “ as
you know this little gypsy girl, pray beckon to her to
come up. It will amuse us.”

‘‘ Oh, yes ! ” cried all the girls, clapping tlieir luinds.

NOTHE-DAME.

“ What nonsense I ” replied Phcebiis. She has doubt"
less forgotten me, and I don’t even know her imme. Still,
if you wish it, ladies, I will make an attempt ; ” and
leaning over the balcony-rail, he called, “ Little one ! ”

The dancer was not playing her tambourine at the
moment. She turned her head towards the point whence
this call came, her sparkling eye fell on Phcehiis, and she
stopped short.

'' Little one 1 ” repeated the captain ; and he signed to
her to come.

The young girl looked at him again ; then she blushed
as if lier cheeks were on fire, and putting her tambourine
under her arm, she moved through the astonished spec-
tators towards the door of the house to which Phcebiis
called her, witli slow, hesitating steps, and the troubled
gaze of a bird yielding to the fascination of a snake.

A moment later, the tapestry hanging before the door
was lifted, and the gypsy appeared on the threshold of the
room, red, abashed, breathless, her large eyes cast down,
and not daring to advance another step.

BdrangJu’e clapped her hands.

But the dancer stood motionless at the door. Her
appearance produced a strange effect upon the group of
young girls. It is certain that a vague and indistinct
desire to please tlie handsome officer animated tliem all
alike; that his splendid uniform was the aim of all their
coquetries ; and that so long as he was present there was
a certain secret lurking rivalry among them, which they
hardly confessed to themselves, but which none the less
ajypeared every instant in their gestures and words. Still,

THE JJANGEU OS’ C0^^1TD1^T

as they were possessed of an almost etiual shai-e of Ix-aidy,
the contest was a fair one, and eacli might well lioi.13 for
victory. The gypsy’s arrival abruptly destroyed this fijui-
libriimi. Her beauty was so remarkable tliat when slie
appeared on the threshold of the room she seemed to dil-

fiise a sort of light peculiar 1
room, in this dark frame of hai
was incomparably more beauti
in the public scpiare. She. wa

m

]}road dayligliit into darkness. The noble maidens were
dazzled in spite of themselves. Each of them felt her
beauty in some sort impaired. Therefore their battle-front
(if we may be pardoned the expression) changed at once,
without exchanging a word. Still, they understood one
another to perfection. The instincts of women read and
reply to one another more rapidly than the understand-
ings of men. An enemy had arrived; all felt it, all
rallied for mutual support. A drop of wine is enough to
redden a whole glass of water ; the entrance of a prettier
woman than theinseh^es is enough to tinge a whole party
of pretty women with a certain amount of ill-hiuiior, —
especially when there is but one man present.

Thus their reception of the gypsy girl was marvellously
cold. They examined her from head to foot, then looked
at one another, and that was enough : they understood one
another. But the young girl waited for them to speak, so
much agitated that she dared not raise her eyes.

The ea])tain was the first to break the silence.

my word,’* he said in his tone of bold assurance,
charming creature! What do you think of her, iaii‘
cousin ? ''

The o]>servation, which a more delicate admirer would
at least Imve uttered in an undertone, was not adapted to
soothe the feminine jealousies arrayed against the gypsy

girl.

Fleur-de-Lys answered the captain with a sweet affec-
tation of disdain: '‘She's not bad-looking.”

The others whispered together.

At last, Madame Aloise, who Was not the least jealous

THE BANGER OF CONFIDING A SECRET, ETC. 15 ,

of tile party, since she was jealous for hei (laughter, a«l-
dressed the dancer: “Come in, little oned'

Come in, little one I” repeated, with comic dignity,
Bdrangfere, who would have reached about to the gypsy’s
waist.

Esmeralda approached the noble lady.

“ My pretty child,” said Phcebus with emphasis, taking
a few steps towards her, “ I don't know^ wdietlier I have
the supreme happiness of , being recognized by you — ”

She interrupted him with a smile and a glance of in-
finite sweetness, —

“Oh, yes!”

“ She has a good memory,” observed Fleiu-de-Tys.

“Kow, then,” continued Phmbiis, “you escaped very
nimbly the other night. Did I frighten you ? ”

“ Oh, no I ” said the gypsy.

There was an indefinite something in the tone in which
this “ Oh, no 1 ” "was uttered directly after the “ Oh, yes 1 ”
which wounded Fleur-de-Lys,

“You left me in your place, my beauty,” resumed the
captain, whose tongue was loosened when he talked to a
girl from the streets, “ a very surly knave, blind of one eye,
and a hunchback, the bishop’s bell-ringer, I believe. They
tell me he’s the archdeacon’s son, and a devil. He lias a
droll name ; they call him Ember Days, Palm Sunday,
Shrove Tuesday, or something of the sort I He ’s named
for some high holiday or other ! He took the liberty of
carrying you off ; as if you were a mate for such as he I
Tliat was coming it rather strong. What tlie devil did
that screech-owl want with you ? Eh ? tell me 1”

16

KOTRE-DAME.

don ’t know/’ answered she.

Did any one ever hear of such insolence, — a bell-ringer
to carry oil* a girl as if he were a viscount I a cominon fel-
low to poach the game of geutlcmeri! A jiretty state of
tilings, indeed 1 However, he paid dearly for it. Master
Pierrat Torterue is the roughest groom that ever combed
and curried a knave ; and 1 can tell yon, if it will please
you, that he gave your bell-ringePs hide a most thorough
dressing.”

“ Poor man 1 ” said the gypsy, reminded by these words
of the scene at the pillory.

The captain burst out laughing. “ By the great liorn-
spooii 1 your pity is as much out of place as a feather on
a pig’s tail May I be as fat as a pope, if — ”

He stopped short. “Excuse me, ladies! I was just
about to utter a folly.”

Fie, sir I ” . said Gaillefontaiue.

“ He speaks to that creature in her own tongue ! ” added
Fleur-de-Lys in a low voice, her anger growing every
instant. Hor was this wrath diminished when she saw
the captain, charmed with the gypsy and above all with
himself, turn on his heel, repeating with the coarse and
frank gallantry of a soldier, —

“ A lovely girl, upon my soul I ”

“ Very badly dressed,” said Diane de Christeuil, sinib
ing to show her fine teeth.

This remark was aAay of light to the others. It showed
them the gypsy’s vulnerable point: unable to carp at her
beauty, tliey attacked her dress.

“Why, that’s true, little one,” said Montmichel; “where

THE BANGER OF COKFIBING A GEC^liET, ETC. ; ' :'1T'

did you learn to nui about the streets in this way, witli’r.u
a wimple or a neckerchief ? ''

'' Your skirt is so short it fairly makes me shiver/’ added
Gailleibntaiiie.

‘•My dear/’ continued Fleiir-de-Lys, somewhat sharply,
“you will be taken up one of thes(^ days, by the sei’gvant'^
of tlie dozen, for your gilded belt/’

“ Little one, little one/’ resumed Christen il with a piti-
less smile, “if you wore a decent pair of sleeves upon
your arms, they would be less sunburnt.”

It was indeed a scene worthy of a jnorc intelligent
spectator than Phcebus, to see how these beautiful girls,
with their angry, venomous tongues, glided and twisted
and twined about the street dancer ; they were cruel and
yet gracious ; they maliciously searched and scanned her
shabby, fantastic garb of rags and tinsel. Their laughter,
their mockery, and their sneers were endless. Sarcasms
rained upon the gypsy, with wicked glances and a haughty
pretence of benevolence. They were like those young
Eoman damsels who amused themselves by plunging
golden pins into the bosom of a beautiful slave girl. They
were like elegant greyhounds, hanging, with distended
nostrils and fiery eyes, about a poor wood-deer which their
master’s eye forbids them to devour.

After all, what was a miserable street dancer to these
daughters of noble houses? They seemed to pay no heed
to her presence, and spoke of hei^ before her, to her, in
loud tones, as of sometliing rather dirty, rather low, hut
still rather pretty.

The gypsy was not msensible to tliese pin-pricks

i:s

XOTKE^DAME,

Now niitl tlieii a flush of shame, a flash of anger, kin-
dled in her eyes or on her cheeks ; a scornful word
seemed trembling on her lips ; slie made that little gri-
mace with wliich the reader is familiar, in token of her
contempt, but she stood motionless ; she fixed a sad, sweet
look of resignation upon Pha‘bus. This look was also full
of hap])iuess and aiiection. She seemed to be restraining
htu'self, for fear she should be turned out.

ITnebiis also laughed, and took the gypsy’s part with a
mixture of impertinence and pity.

Let them talk, little one,” he repeated, jingling liis
golden, spurs ; “ no doubt your dress is somewhat extrava-
gant and peculiar; but what does that matter to such
a charming girl as you are?”

'' Good gracious 1 ” exclaimed the lair-haired Gaillefon-
taine, straightening her swan-like neck with a bitter smile,

I see that tlie officers of the king’s guard easily take
fire at the bright eyes of a gypsy.”

“Why not?” said Phcebus.

At this answer, carelessly uttered by the captain, like
a stone cast at random, which falls unnoted, Coloinbe
began to laugli, as did Diane and Amelotte and Fleur-de-
Lys, into whose eyes tears started at the same time.

Tiie gypsy, whose eyes had drooped at the words of
(.•olombe de Gaillefontaine, now raised tJiem beaming
v'itli |vride and pleasure, and fixed them again upon
PiKcbus. vShe was beautiful indeed at this moment.

The old lady, who was watching this scene, felt offended,
though she did notjvuow why.

“Holy Virgil]!” she suddenly exclaimed, “what is

^ .THIS 'nmGm' of;:C.onfii)ing. a .sechei; etc. 10

tliis tli’iig poking about under my feet ? Ohj the ugly
beast!”

It was tlie goat, wiiicli had entered in search of its
mistress, and which, in its haste to reach her, had
caiiglit its horns in the mass of folds wliich the; noI>!e
dame’s draperies formed about her feet when she was
vseated.

This caused a diversion. The gypsy girl, without speak-
ing, release<i her pet.

“ Oh, there ’s the little goat with the golden feet ! ” cried
B^rangfere, jumping with joy.

The gypsy girl crouched upon her knees and pressed
her cheek against the goat’s fond head. She seemed to
be begging its i)ardon for having thus deserted it.

But Diane whispered in Colombe’s ear, —

“ Gracious 1 why did n’t I think of it before ? It ’s the
gypsy girl with the goat, of whom I liave so often lieanl.
They say she is a witch, and that her goat performs very
marvellous tricks.”

“ Very well,” said Colomhe, “ the goat must now amuse
us, in its turn, by performing some miracle.”

Diane and Colombo addressed the gypsy eagerly, —

“ Little one, make your goat perform vsome miracle.”

“ I don’t know wTiat you mean,” replied the dancer.

“ A miracle, a piece of magic, some witclicraft,”

"'I don’t understand;” and she began to fondle Uic
pretty creature, repeating, “Djalil Djali!”

At this instant Fleur-de-Lys noticed an embroidered
leather bag hanging from the goat’s neck.

“ What is that ? ” she asked* ,

20

KOTRE-BAME.

Tlie gypsy raised her large eyes to the girl's face and
replied gravely, ‘‘That is my secret.”

‘‘I should very much like to know what your secret
is;' thought Fleiir-de-Lys.

3Ieanwhile the good lady rose angrily, saying, —

“ Come, gypsy, if neither you nor your goat can dance
hsr us, why do you loiter here?”

Tlie gypsy, without answering, moved slowly towards
tlic door ; but the nearer she came to it, the .^ower grew
her steps. An irresistible magnet seemed to hold her
back. All at once she turned her eyes wet with tears
upon Pheebus, and paused.

“ Zounds 1 ” cried the captain ; “ you must n't go in
that way. Come back, and dance something for us. By
the way, my beauty, what is your name ? ”

“Esmeralda,” said the dancer, without taking her eyes
from his iace.

At this strange name the young girls burst into a fit
of laughter.

“ A terrible name for a girl,” said Diane.

“ You see now,” added Amelotte, “ that she is an en-
eliantress.”

“My dear,” solemnly exclaimed Dame Aloi’se, “your
parents never fislied out that name for you from the bap-
tismal font.”

Some moments previous, however, B^rangbre, unheeded
by the rest, had lured the goat into one corner of tlie
room by a bit of marchpane. In an instant they were
good friends. The curious child had removed the hag
from the goat's neck, had opened it, and emptied its con-

THE DANGEIi OF rONFlDINr, A SEriMCT, KT<

,. 21 '^'

tents ’n|M)n the matting; tliey C(.»n.si.ste<l of uji
ea(th letter being written upon a separate sqimre o!’ l>n»
wood. N(j sooner were tiiese playthings scattered over
the Hoor, than
the child was
amazed to see
tlie goat, one
of whose “ mir-
acles ” this un-
doulAedly was,
select certain
letters with
her golden
hoof and ar-
range tliem, by

a series of gentle pushes, in a particular order. In a
moment, a word was spelled out which the goat seemed
to have been trained to write, so little did she l^esitate
in the task ; and IMrangfere exclaimed suddenly, clasping
her hands in admiration, —

Godmamma Fleiir-de-Lys, do see what the goat has
just doner'

Fleur-de-Lys looked, and shuddered. The letters ar-
ranged upon the floor spelled this word: —

«PH(EBUBd’

Did tlie goat do that ? ” she asked in an altered tone.

“ Yes, godmamma," answered E^aanghre.

It was impossible to doubt her, for the child could
not spell.

' 22 ^

'' This is her secret I ” thought Fleur-de-Lys.

Meantime, at the child’s shout, tlie wliole party has-
tened to her side, — the mother, the girls, the gypsy, and
the officer.

The gypsy saw the folly which her goat had eoin-
initted. She turned first red, then ]}ale, and trembled
like a criminal beibre the captain, who regarded Iier
witli a smile of mingled satisfaction and surprise.

“ITuebus!” whispered the astonished girls. “Why,
that ’s the captain’s name I ”

“ You have a marvellous memory I ” said Fleur-de-Lys
to the stupefied gypsy. Tlien bursting into, subs, slie
stammered out in an agony, hiding her lace in her lovely
hands, “Oh, she is a witch.!” and she heard a voice more
bitter yet. which said to her iumost heart, “She is your
rival 1 ”

She fell fainting to the floor.

“ My daughter I my daughter I ” screamed the terrified
mother. “Begone, you devilish gypsy!”

Esmeralda picked up the unlucky letters in the twin-
kling of an eye, made a sign to Djali, and went out at one
door as Flenr-de-Lys was borne away by another.

Ca])tain Phtebus, left alone, hesitated a moment be-
tween the two doors ; then he followed the gypsy.

SHOWING THAT A PRIEST
AND A PHILOSOPHER
ARE TWO VERY I)1F~
PERENT PERSONS.

T Hli priest whom the
girls had noticed on
the top of the north tower,
leaning over to look into
the square and watching
the gypsy's dance so close-
ly, was no other than
Claude Frollo.

J4:

KOTHK-DAMR.

Our readers have iH)t forgotton the mysterious cell
viii('h the arclaleacon reserved to liitaself in tliat tower.
( I do not know, let me observe by the way, whether or
not this be the same cell, the interior of which may still
bo set3ii through a tiny grated loophole, opening to the
eastv^ard, at about the height of a man ironi the iloor,
u] Hill the platfurm from wliich the towei'S spring; a mere
hole, now ban?, empty, and dilapidated, the ill-plastered
walls adorned ” here and tliere, at tlie present time, with
a few wretclied yellow engravings, representing various
cathedral fronts. I presume tliat this hole is conjointly
inhalhted by bats and spiders, and that consequeuth' a
double war of extermination is waged against flies.)

Every clay, an hour before sunset, the archdeacon
climbed the tower stairs and shut himself up in this
cell, wdiere he often passed whole nights. On this especial
day, Just as,, having reached the low door of his retreat,
he was fitting into the lock the complicated little key,
which he always carried about with liim in the purse
hanging at his side, the sound of tambourine and castanets
struck upon his ear. The sound came from the square in
Iront of the cathedral. The cell, as we liave already said,
liad but one window looking upon the rooi' of the churcli.
Claude Frolic) hastily withdrew the key, and an instant
later he was upon the top of the tower, in the gloomy and
meditative attitude in which the ladies had seen him.

There he was, serious and motionless, absorbed in one
sight, one thought. All Paris Jay beneath his feet, with
its countless spires and its circular horizon of gently-
sloping hills, witli its river winding beneath its bridges,

A PRIKST AND A PHlLiKSOPUER, TWO 25

and IPs peopPe flowing through its streets, with its cloutl
of smoke and its inouutaiuous chain of roofs crowding
Notre-Daine close with their double rings of tiles ; but ul
this whole city the archdeacon saw only one corner^— the
square in front of the cathedral; only one figure in ail
that crowd, — the gypsy.

It W'Onid have been hard to explain the nature of his
gaze, and tlie source of the fire which flashed from his eyes.
It was a fixed gaze, and yet it was full of agitation and
trou])le. And from the perfect repose of his wliole botly,
scarcely sliakeii by an occasional involuntary slnver, like
a tree stirred by the wind ; from the stiffness of his
elbows, more stony than the railing upon which they
rested ; from the rigid smile which (jontracted his face, you
would have said that there was notliing living about
Claude Frolic but bis eyes.

The gypsy danced ; she twirled her tambourine upon
the tip of her finger, and tossed it into tlie air as she
danced hei' Provencal sarabands: light, alert, and gay,
quite unconscious of the weight of that terrible gaze
which fell perpendicularly upon her head.'

The crowd swarmed about her. Now and then a man
accoutred in a loose red and yellow coat waved the people
back into a circle, then sat down again in a chair a few
paces away from the dancer, and let the goat lay its head
upon his knees. This man seemed to be tlie gypsy's
comrade. From the lofty point where he stood, Claude
Frollo could not distinguish his features.

From the moment that the archdeacon observed tliis
stranger, his attention seemed to be divided between him

:i6

NOTEE-DAME.

md tlie (lancer, and his face grew blacker ‘and blacker.
Suddenly lie straiglitened himself up, and trembled from
liead fco foot. '‘Who is that man?” he muttered be-
tween his teeth. “I have always seen her alone till
now

Then he plunged down the winding stairs once more.
As lie passed the hali-opeii belfry door, he saw something
which struck him : he saw Quasimodo, who, leaning from
an opening in one of those slate penthouses wliicli look
like huge Venetian blinds, was also gazing steadily out
into the .square. He was so absorbed in looking, that lie
paid no heed to his foster lather’s jiresence. liis savage
eye !iad a strange exj^ression ; it looked both chaniied
and gentle. '' How strange !” murmured Claude. " Can he
be looking at the gypsy i He continued his descent.
In a few moments the anxious archdeacon came out into
the square througli the door at the foot of the tower.

“ What has become of the gypsy girl ? ” he said, join-
ing the group of spectators called togetlier by the sound of
the tambourine.

“ I don’t know,” answered one of his neighbors. “Slie
has Just vanished. I think slie has gone to dance some
sort of a fandango in the liouse over opposite, where they
called her in.”

Tn the gypsy’s place, upon the same carpet whose pat-
tern liad but just now seemed to vanish beneath the capri-
(u'ous figures of her dance, tlie archdeacon saw no one but
the red-and-yellow man, who, hoping to gain a few coppers
in his turn, was walking round the ring, liis elbo\vs on his
hips, his head thrown back^. his face scarlet, his neck

A PllIEST AM) A PHILOSOPHEK, TWO PEKSo.N

■ 28 '

KOTRE-^DAME.

neighboring woman, which spit and squalled in desperate
a,Iann.

V Lady!" cried the archdeacon, as the moiuitc-
hank, dri|)ping with perspiration, passed him with Ins
pN’minid of chair and cat, what is blaster Pierre Gringoire
doing liere ?

The arclKleacon’s stern voice so agitated the poor \yretcli
that he lost his balance, and his entire structure, chair, cat,
and all, fell pelLniell upon the heads of the spectators,
amid a storm of inextinguishable shouts and laughter.

Master Pierre Gringoire (for it was indee<l he) would
probably have liad a serious account to settle with the
mistress of the cat, and the owners of all the Inaiised and
scratched laces around him, if he had not hastily availed
liiinself of the confusion to take refuge in the church,
where Claude Frollo had beckoned liiin to follow.

The catliedral was dark and deserted ; the side aisles
were full of shadows, and the lamps in the chapels began
to twinkle like stars, so black had the arched roofs grown.
Gnly tl^e great rose- window in the front, wliose myriad
hues were still l)athed in a ray from the setting suii,
gleatned through the darkness like a mass of diamonds,
and tlirew a dazzling reflection to the farther end of the
na ve.

Wlien they had gone a few paces, Don Claude leaned
his back against a pillar and looked steadily at Gringoire.
It was not sucli a look as Gringoire had dreaded, in liis
sliame at ]>eing caught by a grave and learned person in
this merry-andrew attire., The priest’s glance had noth-
ing mocking or ironical about it ; it was serious, calm,

'xV PRIEST AKD A PHILOSOPHER, TWO PERSONS. 20

and piercing. The archdeacon was first to l}reak the
silence.

Come hither, Master Pierre. You have many niat-
Uivs to explain to me. And, lirst of all, how comes it
that I have not seen you for these two months past,
and tliat I now' find you iii the streets, in a pretty
plight indeed, — half red and half yellow, like a Caude-
I )ec apple ?

“ SiiC’ said Gringoire, in piteous tones, “ it is in sootli
a monstrous garb, and I feel as much abaslied as a cal
with a calabash on her liead. T is very ill dune, I feel,
to expose the gentlemen of the watch to the risk of
cudgelling the shoulders of a Pythagorean philosopher
under this loose coai But what else could I do, my
reverend master ? The blame belongs entirely to my old
doublet, which basely deserted me at the very begin-
ning of winter, on the plea that it was falling to pieces,
and must needs take a little rest in some rag-picker’s
Imsket. What could I do ? Civilization has not yet
reached the point where a man may go naked, as Diogenes
of old desired. Besides, the wind blew very cold, and tlie
month of January is not a good time to introduce such
a new measure to mankiud with any hope of success.
This coat offered itself ; I accepted it, and left heliind my
old black frock, which, for a Hermetic like myself, was
lar from being hermetically closed. So here I am in tlie
dress of a mountebank, like Saint Genest. How can I
help it ? It is an eclipse ; but even Apollo kept the swine
of Admetus.^’

“'A fine trade you have there/’ replied the arclideaeon.

30

NOTHK-DAME.

'' I confess, master, that it is far better to philosophize
and poetize, to blow the flame in the fiirnace, or to receive
it from heaven, than to carry cats upon your sliiekl ; so,
wlien you addressed me, I felt as silly as any donkey be-
fore a turnspit. But what was I to do, sir ? A man must
live ; and the finest Alexandrine verses are not such gootl
eating as a hit of Brie cheese. Now, I wrote that famous
epithalamium for Margaret of Flanders, which you know
all about, and the city has never paid me, under the jnetext
that it was not very good ; as if one could fiiriiish sucli
tragedies as tliose of Sophocles for four crowns ! I almost
starved to deatli. Luckily, I discovered that 1 had rather a
strong jaw. I said to this jaw of mine, ‘ Perform some feats
of strength and balancing; feed yourself,’ — AUUifmni,
A lot of tatterdemalions, with whom I have made Ifiends,
taught me some score of Herculean tricks, and now I give
my teeth every night the bread which I have earned
throiigli tlie day by the sweat of my brow. Alter all
mdo), I confess that it is a sad waste of my, intellectual
faculties, and that man was never made to vspend his life
in drumming on the tambourine and biting into chairs.
But, reverend master, it is not enough to spend one’s life ;
one must earn his living.”

Don Claude listened in silence. All at once his sunk-
en eyes assumed so sagacious and penetrating an expres-
sion, that Gringoire felt that the look searched his inmost
soul

Very good. Master Pierre ; but how comes it that
you are now keeping company with that gypsy dancing-
girl?”

A riilEST AND A PHILOSOriiER, TWO PERSONS. 3i

^‘1/ faith!” said Gvingoire, “because she is my wife
and 1 am her husband.”

The priest’s gloomy eyes blazed witli u'rath.

“Have you done this, miserable fellow?” cried he,
furiously seizing Gringoire by the arm ; “ can you have
been so forsaken of God as to have laid your hands upon
that girl ? ”

“ By my hopes of Paradise, my lord,” replied Gringoire,
trembling in every limb, “ I swear to you that I have
never laid a huger upon her, if that is what disturbs
you.”

“ Then, what do you mean by talking about husband
and wife ? ” said the priest.

Gringoire hastily gave him as brief an account as possi-
ble of his adventure in the Court of Miracles, and his
marriage with the broken jug, all of which the reader
already knows. It seemed, moreover, that this marriage
had as yet had no result, the gypsy always contriving to
slip away and leave him as she had done on their wed-
ding night. “ It is very mortifying,” said he in conclu-
sion, “ but that ’s the consequence of my being so un-
lucky as to marry a maid.”

“ What do you mean ?” asked the archdeacon, who had
gradually grown calmer as he listened to this tale.

“ That ’s not easy to explain,” replied the poet. “ It ’s
a superstition. My wife, according to an old prig whom
we call the Duke of Egypt, is a foundling or a lost
child, which comes to the same thing in the end. She
wears about her neck an amixlet which they say will
some day restore her to her parents, but which will lose

: 32 :

NOTEE-DAME.

its virtue should the young ghi lose hers. Hence it
follows that we are both leading the most virtuous of
lives/’

“Then,” continued Claude, whose brow had cleared
more and more, “ you think, Master Pierre, that this crea-
ture has never been approaclied by any man ? ”

“ What chance, Don Claude, could any man have against
a superstition ? She has a mania upon this point. I
certainly consider it a great rarity to find such nun-like
prudery fiercely maintained in the midst of those gypsy
girls, who are so easily tamed. But she has three safe-
guards, — tlie Duke of Egypt, who has taken her under
his protection, perhaps intending to sell her to some gen-
tleman priest ; her whole tribe, who hold her in singular
veneration, as if she were another Virgin Mary; and a
certain dainty little dagger, which the hussy always
carries somewhere about her, in spite of the provost’s
orders against wearing concealed weapons, and which
always springs into her hand if you do but clasp her
waist. She ’s a regular wasp, I can tell you ! ”

The archdeacon pressed Gringoire with questions.

In Gringoire’s opinion Esmeralda was a charming,
harmless creature, pretty, if it were not for a grimace
which she was always making ; a simple, affectionate girl,
ignorant of all evil, and enthusiastic about everything ;
particularly fond of dancing, of noise, of the open air; a
sort of woman bee, with invisible wings to her feet, and
living in a whirl. She owed this nature to the wander-
ing life which she had always led. Gringoire had man-
aged to find out that while still a child she had travelled

A PlilEST AND A PHILOSOPHER, TWO PERSONS. 33

through Spain and Catalonia, to Sicily ; he even fancied
that she was taken, by the caravan of gypsies to which
she belonged, to the kingdom of Algiers, a country situated
in Achaia, which Achaia, on one side borders Albania and
Greece, on the other the Sicilian sea, which is the road to
Constantinople. The gypsies, said Gringoire, are vassals
of the King of Algiers, in his capacity of chief of tlie
nation of white Moors. One thing is certain, that Es-
meralda came to France when very young, by way of
Hungary. From all these countries the girl had gathered
scraps of strange tongues, queer songs and notions, which
"made her conversation as motley a piece of patchwmrk as
her dress, half Parisian and half African. Moreover, the
people of those quarters of the town which she frequented,
loved her for her gayety, her gracefulness, her lively ways,
her dances, and her songs. She knew but two persons in
the whole city who disliked her, of whom she often spoke
with terror, — the nun of the Tour-Eoland, a dreadful
recluse who had some especial spite against all gypsies,
and cursed the poor dancer every time she passed her win-
dow ; and a priest, who never met her without looking at
her and speaking to her in a way that frightened her.
This latter circumstance greatly troubled the archdeacon,
although Gringoire paid but little heed to his agitation ; so
completely had two months sufficed to blot from the care-
less poet's mind the singular details of that evening upon
which he first met the gypsy, and the archdeacon's pres-
ence on that occasion. Except for this, the little dancer
feared nothing ; she never told fortunes, which prevented
all danger of a trial for witchcraft, such as was frequently

VOL. II — 3

M:

NOTRE-DAME.

bronglit against the other gypsy women. And then,
Griiigoire took the place of a brother, if not of a hus-
band, to her. After all, the philosopher bore this kind of
Platonic marriage very patiently. At any rate, it insured
him food and lodging. Every moiming he set forth from
the vagrants' headquarters, generally in Esmeralda’s com-
pany ; he helped her to reap her harvest of coin along tlie
streets; every night he shared the same roof with lier,
allowed her to bolt herself into her tiny cell, and slept
the sleep of the just, A very pleasant life, take it all
in all, he tliought, and very conducive to reverie. And
then, in his iimeriiiost soul the philosopher was not so
absolutely sure that he was desperately in love with the
girl. He loved her goat almost as well. It was a charm-
ing animal, gentle, intelligent, quick, — a learned goat.
Nothing was more common in the Middle Ages than tliese
learned animals, at which men marvelled vastly, and which
often conducted their instructors to the stake. And yet,
the sorceries of the goat with the golden lioofs were very
innocent tricks Gringoire explained them to the arcli-
deacon, whom these particulars seemed to interest greatly.
All that was necessary, in most cases, was to hold the
tambourine out to the goat in such or vSiich a fashion, to
make the creature perform the desired trick. It had
been trained to do all tins by the gypsy girl, wdio had
such rare skill as an instructor, that it took her only two
monthvS to teach the goat to write the word ^'Pliccbus”
with movable letters.

Phoebus,” said the priest ; and why ^ Phoebus ? ’ ”

"‘I don't know,” answered Gringoire. ‘'It may be a

A PRIEST AND A PHILOSOPHER, TWO PERSONS. 35

word wliich she thinks has some secret magic virtue.
She often repeats it in an undertone when she thinks
she is alone.”

'‘Are you sure/' returned Claude, with his penetrating
glance, “ that it is a word, and not a name ? ”

" Wliose name ? ” said the poet.

“ How do I know ? ” said the priest.

“This is what I believe, sir. These gypsies are a
kind of fire-worshippers, and worship the sun. Hence,

‘ Phmbus.' ”

“ That is not so clear to me as to you. Master Pierre.”

“ JSTever mind ; it does n’t concern me. Let her mum-
ble her ' Phoebus ’ as much as she likes. I Tn sure of one
thing ; and that is, that Djali is almost as fond of me as
of her.”

“Who is Djali?”

“ Tliat ’s the goat.”

The archdeacon rested his chin on his hand, and seemed
for a moment lost in thought. Suddenly he turned ab-
ruptly to Gringoire.

“ And you swear that you have never touched her ? ”

“ Who ? ” said Gringoire, — “ the goat ? ”

“ .No, that woman.”

“ My wife ? I swear I never have.”

“ And you are often alone with her ? ”

“ A good hour every evening.”

Don Claude frowned.

“ Oh ! oil 1 Solus mm sola mn cogitalxmtur orare Pater
•nostcrr , :■

“ By rny soul ! I might, repeat the Pater, and the Am

36 NOTKE-DxVME.

Maria, and the Credo in DeAim ijatrcm oinmpotenlcrji,
without her taking any more notice of me than a hen
would of a church.”

Swear to me by your mother’s soul” repeated the
archdeacon, vehemently, “that you have never laid the
tip of your finger upon the girl.”

“I will swear it by my father’s head as well, if you
hke. But, my reverend master, let me ask one question

in my turn.”

“ Speak, sir.”

“ What difference does
it make to you ? ”

The archdeacon’s pale
face turned red as a
giiTs cheek. For a mo-
ment he made no an-
swer ; then, with evi-
dent embarrassment, he
■,,saidf,—

“Hark ye, Master
Pierre Gringoire. You
are not yet damned, so
far as I know. I am
interested in you, and
“Vish you well. Now,
the slightest contact with
that devilish gypsy girl
would make you the slave of Satan, You know tliat it
is always the body which destroys the soul. Woe betide
you if you approach that woman! That is all.”

A PRIEST AND A PHILOSOP^HER, TWO PERSONS. 37

“ I tried it once/' said Gringoire, scratcMng his ear.
“That was the first day; but I got stung."

“ Had you the effrontery, Master Pierre ? "

- And the priest's face clouded.

Another time/' said the poet, smiling, ''I peeped through
her keyhole before I went to bed, and I saw, in her shift,
as delicious a damsel as ever made a bed creak beneath
lier naked foot,"

“ Go to the devil !" cried the priest, with a terrible look;
and pushing away the amazed Gringoire by the shoulders,
he was soon lost to sight beneath the gloomiest arches of
the cathedral.

THE BELLS.

TIJ'VEE since the morning when he was pilloried, the
-L-/ people living in the neighborhood of Notre-Darne
fancied that Quasimodo’s zeal for bell-ringing had grown
very cold. Up to that time he had pulled the bells upon
every occasion and no occasion at all ; their music sounded
from prime to complines ; the belfry rang a peal for high
mass, or the bells sounded a merry chime for a wedding
or a christening, mingling and blending in the air like a
rich embroidery of all sorts of melodious sounds. The
old church, resonant and re-echoing, was forever sounding
its joy-bells. There seemed to be an ever-present spirit
of noise and caprice, which shouted and sang through
those brazen tongues. Now, that spirit seemed to have
vanished; the cathedral seemed sombre, and given over
to silence ; for festivals and funerals there was still the
simple tolling, dry and bare, such as the ritual required,
and nothing more ; of the double* noise which a church
sends forth, from its organ within and its bells without,

THE BELLS.

39

only the organ remained. It seemed as if there were no
musician left in the belfry towers. And yet, Quasimodo
was still there. What had happened to him ? Did the
shame and despair felt upon the pillory still rankle with-
in him ; did the executioner's lashes still tingle in his
soul; and had the agony caused by such treatment killed
all emotion within him, even his passion for the bells '?
Or had big Marie a rival in the heart of the ringer of
Notre-Dame, and were the big bell and her fourteen sisters
neglected for a fairer and more attractive object ?

It happened that in this year of grace 1482 the Feast
of the Annunciation fell upon Tuesday, the 25th of March.
On that day the air was so pure and so clear that Quasi-
modo felt some slight return of his love for the bells.
He therefore climbed up into the north tower, while be-
low, the beadle threw wide open the church doors, which
were then made of huge panels of hard wood covered
witli leather, edged with gilded iron nails, and framed in
carvings “very cunningly wrought/’

The high belfry cage reached, Quasimodo gazed at the
six bells for some time with a sad shake of the head, as
if mourning over the strange thing which had come be-
tween his heart and them. But when he had set them
swinging; when he felt that cluster of bells vibrating
beneath his touch ; when he saw — for he could not hear
— the quivering octave run up and down that sonorous
scale as a bird hops from twig to twig; when the de-
mon of music, that demon which shakes a dazzling sheaf
of runs, trills, and arpeggios^ had taken possession of the
poor deaf fellow,— then he was happy again; he forgot

40

NOTRE-BAME.

everything; and as his heart swelled with bliss his face
grew radiant.

He came and went, he clapped his hands, he ran from
one rope to another, he encouraged the six singers with
voice and gesture, as the leader of an orchestra spurs on
intelligent performers.

on,” he cried; on, Gabrielle! Pour all your
music into the public square; this is a high holiday.

Thibauld, no lazi-
ness 1 your pace is
slackening ; go on,
go on, I say! Are
you growing rusty,
sluggard ? That 's
good ! quick ! quick 1
don’t let me see the
clapper* Make them
all as deaf as I am.
That ’s it, Tliibauld !
bravely dohe 1 Guil-
laume ! Guillaume !
you are the biggest
of them all, and Pasquier is the smallest, and yet Pasquier
rings the best. 1 11 wager that they who can hear, hear
him better than they do you. Good 1 good 1 my Gabrielle I
louder 1 louder! Hollo ! what are you two doing up there,
you Sparrows ? I don’t see you make the very least noise.
What are those brazen beaks about yonder, that they
seem to yawn when they should be singing ? There, work
away I ’T is the Feast of the Annunciation. The sun

THE BELLS.

41 '

shines bright ; we want a fine peal of bells. Poor Giiib
laiiine ! you 're quite out of breath, my fat lad/'

He was wholly absorbed in urging on his bells, all six
of which bounded to and fro as best they could, and shook
their shining sides, like a noisy team of Spanish mules
goaded by the sharp voice of their driver.

All at once, as his gaze fell between the broad slate
scales which covered the steep belfry wall up to a certain
height, he saw in the square below a young girl quaintly
attired, who paused, spread a carpet on the ground, upon
which a little goat took its place, and a group of specta-
tors formed about them. This sight suddenly changed the
course of his ideas, and chilled his musical enthusiasm as
a blast of wind chills melted resin. He stopped, turned
his back on the chime of bells, and crouched behind the
slated eaves, fixing on the dancing-girl that dreamy, ten-
der, gentle look which had once before astonished the
archdeacon. The neglected bells ceased suddenly and
all at once, to the great disappointment of the lovers
of chimes, who were eagerly listening to the peal from
the Pont au Change, and who now went away as much
amazed as a dog that has been shown a hone and then
receives a stone.

’ANA'rKH.

XT happened that on a fin.

morning in that sami
month of March, — I befiev.

it -was Saturday, the 29 th,—

Saint Eustace’s Day, our young friend the student, Jehai
Frollo du Moulin, noticed while dressing that his breeches
which contained his purse, gave forth no clink of metal,
‘ Poor purse ! ” said he, pulling it from his pocket; “ what 1
not the smallest coin ! How cruelly have the dice, Venus
and mugs of beer gutted thee ! . How empty, wrinkled, am]

’anaTkh.

43

flat you are ! You look like the breast of a Fury ! I just
ask you, Master Gieero and Master Seneca, whose dog’s-
eared works I see scattered over the floor, what does it
avail me to know, better than any governor of the Llint
or any Jew from the Pont au Change, that one golden
crown-piece is worth thirty-five iiiizains at twenty-five
pence and eight Paris farthings eacli, and that another
is worth thirty-six unzains at twenty-six pence and six
Tours fartliings eacli, if I have not a paltry copper to
stake upon the double-six ? Oh, Consul Cicero ! that is
not a calamity to be overcome liy periphrases, — by qiumi-
admoduni and mntm enirti veroJ'

He dressed himself sadly. A thought struck him as
he laced his shoes, but he at first rejected it; however,
it recurred to him, and he put on his waistcoat wrong side
out,^ — an evident sign of some violent mental conflict. At
last he dashed down his cap, exclaiming, “ So much the
worse 1 Come what will, I will go to my brother. I shall
catch a lecture, but I shall also catch a crown.'*

Then he hastily put on his cassock with furred shoulder-
pads, picked up his cap, and dashed out of the room.

He went down the Eue de la Harpe towards the City.
As he passed the Hue de la Hucliette, the smell of those
wonderful spits perpetually revolving there tickled his
olfactories, and he cast an affectionate glance at the gigan-
tic cookshop which once drew from the Franciscan friar*"
Calatagirone the pathetic exclamation, — “ Vermiiente, qtieste
rotisserie sono cma stuqnnda T ' But Jehan had no money
to pay for breakfast; and with a deep sigh he entered the
1 Verily these cookshops he stupendous yjlaces.”

44

NOTEE-DAME.

door of the Petit-Ch^telet, — that huge double trefoil of
massive towers which guarded the entrance to the City.

He did not even take time to throw a stone as he
passed, as was customary, at the wu’etched statue of that
Pdrinet Leclerc who delivered over the Paris of Charles VI.
to the English, — a crime which his effigy, its surface de-
faced by stones and covered with mud, has expiated for
three centuries, at the corner of the Eiies de la Harpe
and de Buci, as in a perpetual pillory.

Crossing the Petit-Porit, and striding down the Eue
Neuve-Sainte-Genevibve, Jehaii de Molendino found him-
self face to face with Hotre-Dame. Then his former in-
decision overcame him, and he walked around the statue
of Monsieur Legris for several moments, repeating in
agony, ^‘The lecture is a certainty; the crown-piece is
doubtful!’^

He stopped a beadle as he came from the cloister.

Where is the archdeacon of Josas?’' ^

'' I think that he is in his cell in the tower/’ said the
beadle ; and I don’t advise you to disturb him, unless
you come from some such person as the pope or the
king.”

Jehan clapped l}is hands.

The devil 1 what a splendid opportunity to see the
famous abode of sorceries 1 ”

Strengthened by this thought, he boldly entered the
little black door, and began to climb the winding stair-
case of Saint-Gilles, which leads, to the upper stories of
the tower. '^We’ll see!” said he as he climbed. ''By
the Holy Virgin’s shoestrings! it must be something very

•ANA'rKH,

45

queer wliich my reverend brother keeps so closel}^ huldeu.
They say that he lights the fires of hell up there, and
cooks the philosopher’s stone over the blaze. My word !
I care no more for the philosoplier’s stone than for any
common pebble; and I should rather find a good omelet
of Easter eggs over his fire than the biggest philosopher’s
stone in the world!”

Eeaching the gallery of little columns, he stopped a
moment to take breath, and to swear at tlie interminable
staircase by 1 know not how many millions of cartloads
of devils ; then he I'esumed his ascent by the little door
of the north tower, now closed to the public. A few
moments later, after passing the belfry cage, he reached a
small landing-place built in a lateral recess, and under
the arch, a low pointed door, — an opening cut through
the circular wall of the staircase enabling him to see its
enormous lock and strong iron framework. Persons de-
sirous of visiting this door at the present time may
recognize it by the inscription in white letters on the
black wall, '' I adore Coralie. 1823. Signed, Eugfene.” The
word ''signed” is in the original.

"Oho!” said the student; “this must be the place.”

The key was in the lock. The door was ajar; he
pushed it gently, and put his head tliroiigh the opening.

Tlie reader has doubtless seen the admirable works of
Eembrandt, that Shakspere of painting. Among many
marvellous engravings, there is one especial etching which
is supposed to represent Doctor Faiistiis, and at wdiich it
is impossible to look without being dazzled. It repre-
sents a dark cell ; in the foreground is a table covered

46

HOTI^E-DAME.

with hideous objects, — skulls, globes, alembics, com-
passes, hieroglyphic parchments. The Doctor is at this
table, dressed in his coarse great-coat, a furred bonnet
pulled down to his eyebrows. He is painted at half-
length. He has half risen from his vast arm-chair, his
clenched fists rest on the table, and he stares with curi-
osity and terror at a large luminous circle, composed of
magical letters, which gleams on the opposite wall like
the solar spectrum in the camera obscura. This cabal-
istic sun seems to shimmer as we look, and fills the
gloomy cell with its mysterious radiance. It is horrible,
and at the same time beautiful.

Something very similar to Faust’s cell appeared to
Jehan when he ventured to put his head in at the half-
open door. This, too, was a dark and dimly-liglited
dwelling. Here, too, were the large chair and large table
the compasses and alembics, skeletons of animals hang-
ing from the roof, a globe rolling over the floor, hippo-
camps pell-mell with glass jars in which (puvered leaf
gold, death’s-heads lying on vellum scrawled over wit!)
figures and letters, thick manuscripts, open, aiid piled
one upon another, without regard to the fragile corners
of the parchment, — in short, all the nibbisli of science,
and over all this litter, dust and cobwebs ; but tliere v’as
no circle of luminous letters, no .rapt doctor gazing at the
flaming vision as the eagle looks upon the sun.

And yet the cell was not deserted. A man sat in
the arm-chair, leaning over the table. Jeliaii, to whom
his back was turned, could see only his shoulders and
the back of his >skull ; but he found no difficulty in

'ana'fkh.

m:

recognizing that bald head, which Nature had endowed
with an enduring tonsure, as if wisln'ng to mark
this outward symbol the archdeacon’s irresistible clerical
vocation.

Jehan recognized his brother ; but the door had opened
so softly that nothing warned Don Claude of his pres-
ence. The curious student took advantage of this fact
to examine the cell at his leisure. A large stove, which
he had not at first observed, stood to the left of the
arm-chair, under the dormer-window. The rays of light
'which penetrated that aperture passed through a round
cobweb covering the pointed arch of the window with its
delicate tracery, in the centre of which the insect archi-
tect lay motionless, like the nave of this wheel of lace-
work. Upon the stove were heaped in confusion all sorts
of vessels, — earthen flasks, glass retorts, and charcoal
matrasses. Jehan noticed, with a sigh, that there was
not a single saucepan.

The kitchen utensils are cold 1 ” thought he.

Moreover, there was no fire in the stove, and it even
seemed as if none had been lighted for a long time. A
glass mask, which Jehan noted among the alchemist’s
tools, and doubtless used to protect the archdeacon’s face
when handling any dangerous substance, lay in one cor-
ner, covered 'witli dust, and apparently forgotten. Beside
it lay an equally dusty pair of bellows, upon the up])er
surface of which was the motto, inlaid in copper, Syim,

Otlier mottoes %vere written on the walls, after the man-
ner of the Hermetics,. in, great number, — some in ink,

48

NOTRE-DAMK.

others engraved with a metal point. Moreover, Gothic
letters, Hebrew letters, Greek letters, and Roman letters
were used indiscriminately, — the inscriptions overlapping
each other at haphazard, the newest effacing the oldest,
and all entangled together, like the brandies in a thicket,
like the pikes in an affray. There was a confused med-
ley of all liiiman philosophy, thought, and knowledge.
Here and there one shone out among the rest like a
flag among the spear-heads. They Avere for the most
part brief Greek or Latin devices, such as the Middle
Ages expressed so W'Cll : '' Unde ? hide V ''Homo homini
monstnmd* " Astra^ castm, nomen^ mtmm!' " Mk^a
^L^XloVj fjbija KafcovJ’ " Sa'pere audeJ' "Fiat libi vxdVd
etc. Sometimes a single word without any apparent
meaning, "'Avayfco^ajia,'' which possibly liid a bitter
allusion to the monastic system ; sometimes a simple
maxim of clerical discipline in the form of a regular
hexameter, “ Ccelestum dominv.ni, teimestrem dicito dom-
mim!' There were also Hebrew hieroglyphics, of whicli
Jehan, who did not even know much Greek, could make
nothing; and the whole was crisscrossed in every direc-
tion with stars, figures of men and animals, and inter-
secting triangles, which contributed not a little to make
the blotted wall of the cell look like a sheet of paper
which a monkey had bedaubed with an inky pen.

The entire abode, moreover, had a look of general de-
sertion and decay, and the bad condition of the imple-
ments led to the conjecture that their owner had for
some time been distracted from his labors by other

cares.

This owner, however, bending over a huge manuscript
adorned with quaint paintings, seemed tormented by a
thought which mingled constantly with his meditations.
At least, so Jehan judged from hearing him exclaim, with
the pensive pauses of a man in a brown study thinking
aloud : —

“Yes, Manu said it, and Zoroaster taught it, — the sun
is the offspring of fire, the moon of the sun ; fire is the
central soul of the great whole ; its elementary atoms per-
petually overflow, and flood the world in boiftidless cur-
rents I At the points where these currents cross in the
heavens, they produce light ; at their points of intersec-
tion on the earth, they produce gold. Light, gold ; the
same thing ! From fire to the concrete state. The differ-
ence between the visible and palpable, between the fluid
and solid of the same substance, between steam and ice, —
nothing more. These are not mere dreams, — it is the
general law of Nature. But how are we to wrest from
science the secret of this general law ? Why, this light
which irradiates my hand is gold ! these self-same atoms,
expanded in harmony with a certain law, only require
to be condensed in accordance with another law. And
how ? Some have fancied it was by burying a sunbeam.
Averroes, — yes, it was Averroes, — Averroes interred one
under the first column to the left in the sanctuary of the
Koran, in the great mosque of Cordova ; hut the vault
may not be opened to see if the operation be. successful,
until eight thousand years have passed.’'

“ The deuce ! ” said Jehan aside, “ that 's a long time to
wait for a crown/'

'' Others have thought,” continued the musing arch-
deacon, that it was better to work with a ray from Sirius.
But it is not easy to get such a ray pure, on account of
the simultaneous presence of other stars which blend with
it. Flainel 1 What a name for one of the elect, Flammm !
— Yes, fire. That is all : the diamond lurks in the coal ;
gold is to be found in fire. But how to extract it ? Ma-
gistri declares that there are certain feminine names pos-
sessing so sweet and mysterious a spell that it is enough
to pronounce them during the operation. Let us read
what Manu says under this head : ‘ Where women are
reverenced, the divinities rejoice ; where thej^ are scorned,
it is vain to pray to God. A wa)maifis hnouth is ever
pure ; it is like running water, it is like a sunbeam. A
woman’s name should be agreeable, soft, fantastic; it
should end with long vowels, and sound like words of
blessing/ Yes, the sage is right, — indeed, Maria, Sophia,
Esmeral — Damnation ! again that thought 1 ’’

And he closed the book violently.

He passed his hand across his bro\v, as if to drive a\vay
the idea which possessed him ; then he took from the
table a nail and a small hammer, the handle of wliicli wms
curiously painted with cabalistic lettei^s,

"'For some time,” said he with a bitter smile, ''I liave
foiled in all my experiments ! a fixed idea possesses me,
and is burned into my brain as with a red-hot iron. 1
have not even succeeded in discovering the lost ^secret of
Cassiodorus, whose lamp burned without wick or oil. And
yet it is a simple matter!”

''A plague upon liim!” muttered Jelian.

^ANA'rKH.

51

“ A single wretched thought, then/’ contimied the priest,
'' is enough to make a man weak and mad 1 Oh, how
Claude Pernelle would laugh me to scorn, — she wdio could
not for an instant turn Mcolas Flamel from his, pursuit
of the great work ! Why, I hold in my hand the magic
hammer of Ezekiel! At every blow which the terrible
rabbi, in the seclusion of his cell, struck on this nail with
this hammer, that one of his foes whom he had condemned,
were he two thousand leagues away, sank an ariifs-length
into the earth, which swallowed him up. The King of
France himself, liaving one night knocked heedlessly at the
magician’s door, sank knee-deep into tlie pavement of his
own city of Paris. Well, I have the hammer and the nail,
and they are no more powerful tools in my hand than a
cooper’s tiny mallet would be to a smith ; and yet I only
need to recover the magic word uttered by Ezekiel as he
struck his nail.”

“ Nonsense ! ” thought Jehan.

'' Let , me see, let me try,” resumed the archdeacon,
eagerly. If I succeed, I shall see a blue spark flash from
the head of the nail. Emen-Eetan ! EfncM-HMcm ! ’
That ’s not it. ' Sigeani ! Sigeani ! ' *May this nail open
the gates of the tomb for every one who bears the name of
Phcebus I A curse upon it ! Always, always and forever
the same ideal”

And he threw the hammer from him angrily. Then he
sank so far forward over the table, that Jehan lost sight of
him behind the huge back of the chair. For some mo-
ments he saw nothing but his fist convulsively clenched
upon a book. All at once Don Claude rose, took up a

iiiM

HOTRE-DAME.

’ANiV'rKH.

53

pair of compasses, and silently engraved upon the wall, in
capital letters, this Greek word: —

brother is mad,” said Jehaii to himself; '' it would
have been much simpler to write ' Fatum ; ’ every one is
not obliged to understand Greek”

The archdeacon resumed his seat in his arrn-cliair, and
bovjed his head on his hands, like a sick man whose brow
is heavy and burning.

The student watched his brother in surprise. He, who
wore his heart on his sleeve, who followed no law in the
world but the good law of hTature, who gave free rein to
his passions, and in whom the fountain of strong feeling
was always dry, so clever was. he at draining it daily, — he
could not guess the fury with which the sea of human
passions bubbles and boils when it is denied all outlet;
how^ it gathers and grows, how it swells, how it overflows,
how it wears away the heart, how it breaks forth in re-
pressed sobs and stifled convulsions, until it has rent its
dikes and burst its bed. Claude Frolic’s stern and icy
exterior, that cold surface of rugged and inaccessible virtue,
had always misled Jehan. The jovial student had never
dreamed of the boiling lava which lies deep and fiery be-
neath the snowy front of ^tna.

We know not if he was suddenly made aware of these
things ; but, feather-brain though he was, he understood
that he had seen what he was never meant to see, that
he had surprised his elder ; brother’s soul in one of its
most secret moments, and that he must not let Claude

NOTKE-DAME.

discover it. Noting that the archdeacon had relapsed
into his former immobility, he drew his head back very
softly, and made a slight noise behind the door, as if he
had just arrived, and wished to warn his brother of his
approach.

'' Come in 1 cried the archdeacon from within the cell ;
“ I expected yon. I left the door on the latch purposely ;
come in, Master Jacques/'

The student entered boldly. The archdeacon, much an-
noyed by such a visit in such a place, started in his chair.
'' What I is it you, Jehan ?

'Mt is a J, at any rate,’' said the student, with his merry,
rosy, impudent face.

Don Claude's features resumed their usual severe
expression.

« Why are you here ? ”

Brother,’' replied the student, trying to put on a
modest, unassuming, melancholy look, and twisting his
cap with an innocent air, '' I came to ask you — ”

"What?”

"For a little moral lecture, which I sorely need.”
Jehan dared not add aloud, " And a little money, which
I need still more sorely/' The last part of his sentence
was left unspoken.

" Sir,” said the archdeacon in icy tones, " I am greatly
displeased with you/’

"Alas!” sighed the student.

Don Claude turned his chair slightly, and looked
steadily at Jehan.

" I am very glad to see you.”

cwsi;

. ,

This was a terrible begin^>
iiing. Jehan prepared for a
severe attack.

Jehan, I hear com-
plaints of you every day.
How about that beating

O

with which you
^ bruised ascertain
little Viscount
Albert de Ea-

56

NOTRE-DAME.

Oh 1 said Jehan, that was nothing, — a mischievous
page, who amused himself with spattering the students by
riding his horse through the mud at full speed 1

“ How about that Mahiet Fargel/’ continued the arch-
deacon, whose gown you tore.? " Tunicam dechiramrnntj
the complaint says.”

Oh, pooh ! a miserable Montaigii cape, — that ’s all ! ”
The complaint says ' tunicam^ and not ' cappcttam '
Do you know Latin?”

Jehan made no answer.

^‘Yes,” resumed the priest, sliaking his head, this is
what study and learning have come to now. The Latin
language is hardly understood, Syriac is an unknown
tongue, Greek is held in such odium that it is not con-
sidered ignorance for the wisest to skip a Greek word with-
out reading it, and to say, ^ Qrcecwm est, non legitur! ”

The student boldly raised his eyes: “Brother, would
you like me to explain in good every-day French that
Greek word written yonder on the wall ? ”

“ Which word ? ”

“MJV/rKH”

A slight flush overspread the archdeacon’s dappled
cheeks, like the puff of smoke which proclaims to the
world the secret commotion of a volcano. The student
scarcely noticed it.

“ Well, Jehan!” stammered the elder brother with an
efibrt, “ what does the word mean ? ”

^ Fate.”

Don Claude turned pale again, and the student went on
carelessly, —

*ANA'rKH.

0 /

“ And that word below it, written by the same hand,

' 'Ava^veLa' meaiLS "impurity/ You see I know iny Greek/'

The archdeacon was still silent. This Greek lesson had
given him food for thought.

Little Jehan, who had all the cunning of a spoiled child,
thought this a favorable opportunity to prefer his request.

He therefore assumed a very sweet tone, and began :

My good brother, have you taken such an aversion to
me that you pull a long face for a few paltry cuffs and
thumps distributed in fair fight to no one knows wdiat
boys and monkeys {quibusdam marmosetis) ? You see,
dear brother Claude, that I know my Latin/’

But all this affectionate hypocrisy failed of its usual
effect on the stern elder brother. Cerberus did not snap
at the sop. The archdeacon’s brow did not lose a single '

wninkle.

"" What are you driving at ? ” said he, dryly. j

'"Well, then, to the point! This is it,” bravely re- 1

sponded Jehan ; “ I want money/’ j

At this bold declaration the archdeacon’s face assumed
quite a paternal and pedagogic expression. ;

“ You know, Master Jehan, that our Tirechappe estate
only brings us in, reckoning the taxes and the rents of the :

twenty-one houses, thirty-nine pounds eleven pence and
six Paris farthings. It is Iialf as much again as in the
time of the Paclet brothers, but it is not much.” •

" I want money,” stoically repeated Jehan. [

“You know that it has been ofilcially decided that our 1

twenty-one houses were held in full fee of the bishopric, j

and that we can only buy ourselves pff from this homage [

I

58

NOTRE-DAME.

by paying two silver gilt marks of the value of six Paiis
pounds to the right reverend bishop. Now I have not yet
been able to save xij) those two marks. You know this.”

'‘I know that I want money,” repeated Jehan for the
third time.

Aud what would you do with it?”

This question made tlie light of hope shine in Jehan’s
eyes. He resumed his demure, caressing manner.

'' See here, dear brother Claude ; I do not come to you
with any evil intention. I doift want to cut a dash at
the tavern with your money, or to walk the streets of Paris
in garments of gold brocade with my lackey, cum meo la-
qiimio. No, brother; I want the money for a charity”
“What charity ?” asked Claude, with some sur{)rise.

“ There are two of my friends who want to buy an out-
fit for the child of a poor widow in the Haudry almshouse.
It is a real charity. It will cost three florins ; I want to
give my share.”

“ Who are your two friends ? ”

“Pierre lAssommeur and Baptiste Croque-Oison.” ^
“Hum!” said the archdeacon; “those names are as fit
for charity as a bombard for the higii altar.”

Certainly Jehan had chosen very suspicious names for
his two friends, as he felt when it was too late.

“And then,” added the sagacious Claude, “ what kind of
an outfit could you buy for three florins, and for the child
of one of the women in the Haudry almshouse, too ?
How long have those widows had babies in swaddling-
clothes ? ”

1 Peter Knock-’em-down and Baptist Goose-gobbler.

*ANA'rKH.

59

Jeliau broke the ice once more, —

Well, then, if I must tell you, I want the money to go
to see Isabeaii la Thierrye tomight, at the Val-d’ Amour.’'

‘‘ Impure scamp ! '' cried the priest.

"‘"Apaypela,^’ said Jehan.

This quotation, borrowed, perhaps maliciously, by the
student from the wall of the cell, produced a strange effect
upon the priest. He bit his lip, and his rage was ex-
tiaguislied in a blush.

''Begone!” said he to Jehan. "1 am exj)ecting some
one.”

The student made another effort, —

“ Brother Claude, at least give me a few farthings for
food.”

"How far have you got in Gratian's decretals?” asked
Don Claude.

" I ’ve lost my copy-books.”

" Where are you in the Latin humanities ?”

" Somebody has stolen my copy of Horace.”

" Wliere are you in Aristotle ? ”

"My faith, brother! what Father of the Church says
that tlie errors of li ere tics have in all ages taken refuge
in tlie brambles of Aristotle’s metaphysics ? Plague
take Aristotle ! I will not destroy, my religion with his
metaphysics.”

" Young mau,” resumed the archdeacon, "at the king’s
last entry there was a gentleman , called Philippe de Co-
mines, who had embroidered on his horse’s housings this
motto, which I advise you tO: consider: ‘ Qui non labored
non mcmchicd! ”

60

NOTRE-DAME.

The student was silent for a moment, his finger to his
ear, his eye fixed upon the ground, and an angry air.

Suddenly he turned to Claude with the lively quickness
of a water wagtail, —

“So, good brother, you refuse to give me a penny to
buy a crust from a baker?'’

“ ' Qui non lahorat non manclucetJ ”

At this reply from the inflexible archdeacon, Jehan hid
his face in his hands, like a woman sobbing, and ex-
ckimed in accents of despair, “ ’OroTOTOTorot/”

“What do you mean by that, sir?” asked Claude,
amazed at this outburst.

“ Why/’ said the student, — and he looked up at Claude
with impudent eyes into which he had just rubbed his fists
to make them look red with crying, — “ it is Greek \ It is
an anap^st of ^schylus which expresses grief j)erfectly.”

And here he burst into laughter so absurd and so vio-
lent tliat it made the archdeacon smile. It w^as really
Claude’s fault ; why had he so spoiled the child ?

“Oh, good brother Claude,” added Jelian, emboldened
by this smile, “just see my broken buskins! Was there
ever more tragic cothurnus on earth than boots wdth
flapping soles ? ”

The archdeacon had promptly resumed his former
severity.

' “ I will send you uew boots, but no money.”

“ Only a paltry penny, brother,” continued the suppliant
Jehan. “I will learn Gratian by heart. 1 will ].>elieve
heartily in God. I will be a regular Pythagoras of learn-
ing and virtue. But give me a penny, for pity’s sake 1

'ANA'rKH.

61

Would you have me devoured by famine, which gapes
before me with its jaws blacker, more noisome, deeper
than Tartarus or a monk’s nose ? ”

, Don Claude shook his wrinkled brow : '' ' QvA non
lahorat — ’ ”

Jehan did not let him finish.

“Well, then,” he cried, “to the devil! Hurrali for fun !
1 11 go to the tavern, I ’ll fight, I ’ll drink, and 1 11 go to
see the girls ! ”

And upon this, he flung up his cap and cracked his
fingers like castanets.

The archdeacon looked at him with, a gloomy air.

“Jehan, you have no soul!”

“ In that case, according to Epicurus, I lack an un-
known quantity composed of unknown qualities.”

“Jehan, you must think seriously of reform.”

“ Oh, come 1 ” cried the student, gazing alternately at
his brother and at the alembics on the stove ; “ is every-
thing crooked here, — ideas as well as bottles?”

“Jehan, you are on a very slippery road. Do you know
wlierc you are going ? ”

“ To the tavern,” said Jehan.

“ The tavern leads to the pillory.”

“ It ’s as good a lantern as any other, and perhaps it
was the one with which Diogenes found his man.”

The pillory leads to the gallows ”

“ The gallows is a balance, with a man in one scale and
the ^vhole world in the other. It is a fine thing to be
tlie man.” ;

NOTRE-DAME.

'' That ’s a glorious fire.”

'' Jehaig Jeban, you will come to a bad end 1”

“ I. shall have had a good beginning/’

At this moment the sound of footsteps was heard on
the stairs.

''Silence!” said the archdeacon, putting his finger to
his lip ; " here comes Muster Jacques. Listen, Jehari,” he
added in a low voice take care you never inention what
you may see and hear here. Hide yourself quickly under
that stove, and don’t dare to breathe.”

The student crawled under the stove ; there, a capital
idea occurred to him.

By the way, brother Claude, I want a florin for hold-
ing my breath.”

" Silence I you shall have it.”

" Then give it to me.”

“ Take it 1 ” said the archdeacon angrily, flinging him
his purse.

Jehan crept fiirther under the stove, and the door

THE TWO MEN DRESSED IN BLACK.

' I 'HE person who entered wore a black gown and a
J- gloomy air. Our friend Jehan (who, as may
readily be supposed, had so disposed himself in liis
corner that he could see and hear everything at his good
pleasure) was struck, at the first glance, by the extreme
melancholy of the new-comer’s face and attire. Yet a
certain amiability pervaded the countenance, albeit it was
the amiability of a cat or a judge, — a sickly amiability.
The man was very gray, wrinkled, bordering on sixty
years ; had white eyebrows, hanging lip, and big hands.
When Jehan saw that he was a mere nobody, — that
is, probably a doctor or a magistrate, and that his nose
was very far away from his mouth, a sure sign of stu-
pidity, — he curled himself up in his hiding-place, in

64

NOTEE-'BAME.

despair at having to pass an indefinite length of time in
so uncomfortable a position and in such poor company.

Meantime, the archdeacon did not even rise from his
chair to greet this person. He signed to him to be seated
on a stool near the door, and after a few moments’ si-
lence, which seemed the continuation of a previous medi-
tation, he said in a somewhat patronizing tone, “Good-
morning, Master Jacques.”

“Your servant, master,” replied the man in black.

In the two ways of pronouncing, — on the one hand
that “ Master Jacques,” and on the other that distinc-
tive “ master,” — there was the difference that there is
between clominc and domm. It bespoke the greeting of
teacher and pupil.

“Well,” resumed the archdeacon after a fresh pause,
which Master Jacques took care not to break, “have
you succeeded ? ”

“Alas! master,” said the other, with a sad smile, “I
am still blowing away. As many ashes as I choose*
but not a particle of gold.”

Don Claude made an impatient gesture. “I’m not
talking about that. Master Jacques Charmoliie, but about
the trial of your sorcerer, Marc Cenaine, — wasn’t that
what you called him ? — the butler to the Court of Ac-
counts. Does he confess his magic ? Was tlie rack
successful ? ” ■

“ Alas 1 no,” replied Master Jacques, still with the same
sad smile ; “we have not that consolation. The man is
as hard as flint.; we might boil him at the Pig-market
before he would say a word. And yet, we liave spared

THE TWO MEN OKESSEU IN BLACK.

65

nothing to get at the truth ; all his bones are out of joint
already ; we liave left no stone unturned. As the old
comic author, Plautus, says : —

^Advorsmn stinmlos, laminasy crucesquCf comiMdcsque,

NervoSf catenas^ car ceres, mmellas, pecUcas, hnasd

All ill vain; the man is terrible indeed. I can’t make
him ont!”

You Ve not found anything new at his house ? ”

“Yes, indeed/’ said Master Jacques, fumbling in his
purse ; “ this parchment. There are words written on it
which ^ve cannot comprehend. And yet the criminal law-
yer, Philippe Lheulier, knows a little Hebrew, wliich he
picked up in that affair of the Jews in the Hue Kantersten
at Brussels.’’

So saying, Master Jacques unrolled a parchment.

“ Give it to me,” said the archdeacon. And casting his
eyes over the writing, he exclaimed, “ Clear magic, Master
Jaccj^ues I ' Eme7i-‘H6tan ! ’ that is the cry of the vampires
as they appear at their Sabbath. ‘ Per et cum ipso,

et m ipso P — that is the word of command which rechains
the Devil in hell. ' Hax, ixix, max!' this belongs to
medicine : a prescription against the bite of mad dogs.
Master Jacques, you are the king’s proxy to the Eccle-
siastical Court. This parchment is an abomination.”

“ We will return the man to the rack. Here again,”
added Master Jacques, rummaging in his wallet once
more, “is something else which we found in Marc Ce-
naiiie’s house.”

It was a vessel similar to those which covered Don
Claude’s stove.

m

NOTRE-DAME.

''Ah said the archdeacon, "an alchemist's crucible."

" I must confess/' replied Master Jacques, with his shy,
awkward smile, "that I tried it on my furnace, but I
succeeded no better than with my own."

The archdeacon began to examine the vessel

"What has he inscribed upon his crucible? ^ Och/
och r — the word which drives away fleas! This Mare
Oenaine is a dolt ! I can easily believe that you will
never make gold with this. Put it in your alcove in
summer, for that's all it’s fit for."

" Talking of mistakes/’ said the king’s proxy, " I have
just been studying the porch below, before I came up-
stairs; is your reverence very sure that it’s the open-
ing of the book of physics wdiich is represented there
on the side towards the Hospital ; and tliat, of the seven
nude ' figures at the feet of the Virgin, the one with
wings at his heels is meant for Mercury ? "

" Yes," replied the priest ; "it is so written by Augustin
Nypho, that Italian doctor who had a bearded familiar
spirit, wliich taught him everything. However, we will go
down, and I wall explain all this to you on the spot."

" Thanks, master," said Charmolue, bowing to tlie
ground. " By the way, I forgot I When will it please
you to have tlie little witch arrested ? ’’

" What witch ? "

"That gypsy girl whom you know well, who comes
every day and dances in the square before the cathedral,
despite the official prohibition. She has a goat which is
possessed, and which has the Devil’s own liorns; wliich
reads and writes, and is . as. good a mathematician as

THE TWO MEN HKESSED IN BLACK.

67

Picatrix, and would be quite enough to hang an entire
tribe of gypsies* The papers are ready ; the case will be
a short one, I warrant! A pretty creature, by my soul,
— that daucing-giii ! The finest black eyes I Two car-
buncles 1 When shall we begin ? ”

The archdeacon was extremely pale.

“ I will let you know,’’ he stammered in a voice which
was scarcely articulate; then he added, with an effort,
‘'Devote yourself to Marc Cenaine.”

"Never fear,” said Charmolue, smiling; "I’ll have him
re-strapxDed to the leather bed when I go back. But he 's
a devil of a fellow ; he would tire out Pierrat Torterue
himself, and his hands are bigger than mine. As the
worthy Plautus says: —

‘ N'lidus vinctiis, centum pondo^ es quando pcndcs per pedes.'

The torture of the wheel 1 That ’s the best thing we
have. He shall take a turn at that.”

Don Claude seemed absorbed in gloomy reverie. He
turned to Charmolue with the words, —

"Master Pierrat,- — ^ Master Jacques, I mean, — devote
yourself to Marc Cenaine.”

"Yes, yes, Don Claude. Poor man I he must have
suffered like MummoL But then, what an idea, to go
to the Witches’ Sabbath, — a biitler of the Court of Ac-
counts, who must know Charlemagne’s text, ' Stryga ml
mmea ’ / As for that little girl, -r— Smelarda, as they
call her, — I will await your orders. All 1 and as we pass
through the porch you will also explain to me the mean-
ing of the gardener painted iff relief at the entrance to

68

NOTRE-DAME.

the church. The Sower, is n’t it ? Eh ! master, what
are you thinking about?”

Don Claude, lost in his own thoughts, did not hear
him. Charmolue, following the direction of his gaze, saw
that it was fixed mechanically upon tlie large cobweb
which covered the window. At this instant a rash fly,
in search of the March sun, plunged headlong into the
trap and was caught in it. At the vibration of its web
the huge spider made a sudden sally from its central
cell, and with one bound fell upon the fly, which it
doubled up with its front antennm, while its hideous
proboscis dug out the head. ‘‘ Poor fly ! ” said the king's
proxy to the Ecclesiastical Court; and he raised his hand
to save it. The archdeacon, with a start, held back his
arm with convulsive force.

''Master Jacques,” he cried, "do not interfere with the
work of Fate!”

' The attorney turned in alarm ; he felt as if iron pincers
had seized his arm. The priest’s eye was fixed, wild,
and flaming, and was still fastened upon the horrible little
group of the spider and the fly.

" Oh, yes,” added the priest, in a voice which seamed
to come from his very entrails, "this is. a universal sym-
bol. The insect flies about, is happy, is young ; it seeks
the spring sun, the fresh air, freedom ; oh, yes, but it
runs against the fatal web ; the spider appears, — the
hideous spider ! Poor dancing-girl ! poor predestined fly !
Master Jacques, do not interfere! it is the hand of Fate!
Alas I Claude, you are the spider. Claude, you are the
fly as well ! You flew abroad in search of learning,

THE TWO MEN DRESSED IN ELACK.

69

ligiit, and sun ; your only desire was to gain tlie pure
air, the broad light of eternal truth; hut in your haste
to reach the dazzling window which opens into the
other world, — the world of intellect, light, and learn-
ing, — blind fly ! senseless doctor ! you failed to see
that subtle spider’s w’^eb woven by Fate between tiie
light and you; you plunged headlong into it, wretched
fool! and now you struggle in its meshes, with bruised
head and broken wings, in the iron grasp of destiny.
Master Jacques, Master Jacques, let the spider do its
work!”

1 assure you,” said Charmolue, looking at him uncom-
prehendingiy, “ I will not touch it. But for mercy’s
sake, master, let go my arm I Your hand is like a pair
of pincers.”

The archdeacon did not hear him. '' Oh, madman ! ”
he resumed, without taking his eyes from the windows
"'And if you could have broken this dreadful web with
your frail wings, do you think you could have reached
the light ? Alas I how cOuld you have passed that pane
of glass beyond it, — that transparent obstacle, that crys-
tal wall harder than iron, which separates all philosophy
from truth ? Oh, vanity of science ! How many sages
have flown from afar to bruise their heads against it!
How many contending systems have rushed pell-mell
against that everlasting pane of glass ! ”

He ceased speaking. These last ideas, which had in-
sensibly diverted his thoughts from himself to science,
seemed to have calmed him. Jacques Charmolue com-
pletely restored him to a sense of reality by asking him

M

KOTRE-DAME.

this question : '' Come, mavSter, when are you going to
help me to make gold? I long for success/’

The archdeacon shook his head with a bitter smile, —

‘'Master Jacques, read Michel Pselliis, ' Dialogus cle
Energia ct Opemtione Bcemonwii! Our work is not alto-
getlier innocent/'

"Not so loud, master! I fear you are right/’ said
Charmolue. " But I must needs dabble a little in her-
inetics, being only the king’s proxy to the Ecclesiastical
Court, at a salary of thirty Tours crowns a year. But
speak lower/’

At this moment the sound of champing and chewing,
proceeding from under the stove, attracted Gharmolue’s
anxious ear.

" What is that ? ” he asked.

It was the student, who, greatly cramped and much
bored in his hiding-place, had contrived to find an old-
crust of bread and a bit of mouldy cheese, and Imd set
to work to devour them without, more ado, by way of
consolation and of breakfast.' ‘As he was ravenously
hungry, he made a great deal of noise, and smacked his
lips so loudly over every mouthful as to give tlie alai'm
to the lawyer.

" It is my cat,” said the archdeacon, hastily, " feasting
under there upon some mouse.’*

Tliis explanation satisfied Charmolue.

, “ Indeed, master,” he replied with a respectful smile,
"every great philosopher has had his familiar animal.
You know what Servius says ; ‘ Nulhis enim locus sine
gemo

/ ; Me:tw BLACK., "71

But Don Claude, wlio feared some fresli outbreak from
Jehaii, reminded his worthy disciple that they had certain
figures on the porch to study together ; and the two left the
cell, to the great relief of the student, who began seriously
to fear that his knees would leave their permanent mark
upon his chin.

THE EFFECT PRODUCED BY SEVEN OATHS IN
THE OPEN AIR. ,

T E DEUM LAUDAMUS 1 " cried Master Jelian, as
he stepped from his hiding-place ; '' tlie two screech-
owls have gone. Och ! ocli I Hem ! pem ! max ! the fleas 1
the mad dogs 1 the devil 1 I 've had enough of their talk !
My head rings like a belfry. Mouldy cheese into the
bargain I Kow, then ! let us be oiff ; let us take our big
brother's purse, and convert all these coins into bottles I ''

THE EFFECT PKODUCED BY SEVEN OATHsS. 73

He cast a look of tenderness and admiration into the
interior of the precious purse, adjusted his dress, wiped
his boots, dusted Ids poor shoulder-pads all gray with
ashes, whistled a tune, frisked about, looked to see if there
was nothing left in the cell which he might carry off,
scraped up a few glass charms and trinkets from the top
of the stove, thinking he might pass them off upon Isa-
beau la Thierrye for jewels, then gave a push to the door,
which his brother had left ajar as a final favor, and which
he left open in his turn as a final piece of mischief, and
liopped down the winding stairs as nimbly as a bird.

In the midst of the shadows of the spiral staircase he
elbowed something which moved aside with a growl ; he
took it for granted that it was Quasimodo, and this struck
him as so droll, that he held his sides with laughter all the
rest of the way down. As he came out into the public
square, he was still laughing.

He stamped his foot when he found himself on solid
ground once more. Oh,’’ said he, good and honorable
pavement of Paris I Cursed stairs, which would put all
the angels of Jacob’s ladder out of breath! What was I
thinking of when I poked myself into that stone gimlet
which pierces the sky ; and all to eat musty cheese, and to
see the steeples of Paris through a garret window 1 ”

He walked on a few paces, and saw the two screech-
owls — that is to say, Don Claude and Master Jacques
Oharmolue — lost in contemplation of a bit of carving on
the porch. He approached them on tiptoe, and heard the
archdeacon say in a very low voice. to Oharmolue, “It was
Guillaume de Paris, who had a Job graven on that lapis-

■ 74 ;

NOTBE-.DAME.

lazuli colored stone, gilded at tlie edges. Jol.) represents
tlie philosopher’s stone, which must also be tried and' tor-
tured before it can, become perfect, as Eaymond Lolle
says: 'Sub conservatione formm qjccifm salva animal'

“That’s all one to me/’ said Jehan. “T is I who hold
the purse.”

At this instant he heard a loud, ringing voice pronounce
a terrible string of oaths just behind him.

“Zounds! Odds bodikins ! By the Rood! By Cock
and pye! Damme! S’death 1 Thunder and Mars!”

“ By my soul,” exclaimed Jehan, “ that can be no other
than my friend Captain Phoebxis!”

The name of Plioebus reached the archdeacon’s ears, just
as he was explaining to the king’s proxy the dragon hid-
ing his tail in a bath from which rise smoke and a king’s
head. Don Claude shuddered, stopped short, to the great
surprise of Charmolue, turned, and saw his bi^otlier Jelian
talking to a tall officer at the door of the Gondelaurier
house.

It was indeed Captain Phoebus de Chfiteaiipers. He
was leaning against the corner of liis lady-love’s house,
and swearing like a pirate.

“My word! Captain Phcebns,” said Jelian, taking him
by the liand, “you swear with admirable spirit!”

“ Thunder and Mars ! ” replied the captain.

“Thunder and Mars, yourself!” res^ionded the student.
“How, then, my fine captain, what has caused such an
outburst of elegant epithets?”

“Your pardon,, gmod .cpmrade Jehan,” cried Phmbus,
shaking him by the hand; ,“hut a horse running at full

THE EFFECT PRODUCED BY SEVEN OATHS. 75

.s])ee(l cannot stop short. Now, I was swearing at full
gallop. I have just come from those prudes; and when
I leave them, I always have my mouth full of oaths; I
must needs spit them out, or I should choke. Thunder
and guns !

“Will you take a drink ?’" asked the student. This
proposition calmed tlie captain.

“ With pleasure ; but I ’ve no money.’'

“ But I have l ”

“ Pshaw ! let me see V

Jeliau displayed the purse to the captain’s eyes, with
dignity and simplicity. Meanwhile the archdeacon, hav-
ing left the amazed Charmolue,. had approached them,
and stood some paces distant, watcliing them both un-
observed by them, so absorbed were they in looking at
the purse.

Phoebus exclaimed : “ A purse in your pocket, Jehan !
That ’s like the moon in a pail of water. I see it, but it
is not really there. It is only a shadow. By Heaven !* I
wager there’s nothing but pebbles in it!”

Jeban answered coldly, “111 show you the kind of
pebbles that I pave my pocket with ”

And without another word he emptied the purse upon
a neighboring post, with the air of a Eoman saving his
country.

“ Good God 1 ” muttered Phoebus ; “ gold pieces, big
silver pieces, little silver pieces, crowns, shillings, and
pence ! It is dazzling ! ”

Jehan remained dignified and unmoved. A few pen-
nies had rolled into the mud ; the captain, in his enthm

76

NOTRE-DAME.

siasm, stooped to pick them up. Jelian restrained him,
saying, —

'Tie, Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers !

Phoebus counted the money, and turning solemnly to
Jehan, asked, “ Do you know, eJehan, that you have here
twenty-three crowns ? Whom did you rob last night in
the Eue Coupe-Gueule ? ”

Jehan threw back his fair curly head, and said, half
closing his eyes in scorn, —

I have a brother who is an archdeacon and a fooL'^

" Confound it ! cried Phoebus ; “ so you have, the wor-
thy fellow r*

Let us take a drink,” said Jehan.

Where shall we go ? ” said Phoebus ; ''to the Pomme
d’llve ? ”

“ bTo, captain ; let us go to the Vieille Science. An old
woman who handles a saw to saw a handle,^ — that ’s a
rebus : and I love that sort of thing.”

'^A plague on rebuses, Jehan ! The wine is better at
the Pomme d'llve ; and besides, at the door is a vine in
the sun, which cheers me as I drink.”

" So be it,” said the student ; and taking Phoebus by
the arm, the two friends set out for that tavern. It is
needless to say that they first picked up the money, and
that the archdeacon followed them.

The archdeacon followed them, sad and worn. Was
this the Phoebus whose accursed name, since his inter-
view with Gringoire, had mingled with all his thoughts ?
He knew not ; but at any rate it was a Idicebus, and

*' "4 * '

that magic name was enough to make the
follow the two heedless comrades with stealtl

78

NOTRE-DAME.

tening to tlieir every word and noting their least gesture
with eager attention. Moreover, nothing was easier than
to hear everything they said ; for they spoke very loud,
utterly regardless of the fact that they were taking the
passers-by into their confidence. They talked of duels,
women, drinking, and riots.

At the corner of a street the sound of a tambourine was
heard from a neighboring cross-way. Don Claude over-
heard the officer say to tlie student,—

“ Thunder I We must hasten/’

'' Why, Phcebus ? ”

'' I ’m afraid the gypsy girl will see me/’

“ What gypsy girl ? ”

'' That little thing with the goat,”

^^Smeralda?”

'Must so, Jehan. I always forget her devil of a name.
Make haste ; she would be sure to recognize me. I don’t
wish to have that girl accost me in the street.”

" Do you know her, Phcebus ?

Here the archdeacon saw Phoebus chuckle, put his mouth
to Jehan’s ear, and whisper a few words to him ; then he
burst out laughing, and shook his head with a triumphant
air.

" Eeally ? ” said J ehan.

" Upon my soul ! ” said Phoebus.

" To-night ? ”

" To-night.”

" Are you sure she will come ? ”

" Are you mad, Jehan ?: How can there be any doubt
in such matters?”

THE EFEECT PRODUCED BY SEVEN OATHS. 79

'' Captain Phoebus, you are a lucky soldier ! ’’

The archdeacon heard every word of this conversation.
His teeth chattered ; he shook from head to foot. He stood
still a moment, leaned against a post like a drunken man,
then followed in the track of the two jolly sccimps.

When he rejoined them they had changed the subject.
He heard them singing at the top of their voices the old
refrain : —

“ The lads of Petty-Tiles, they say,

Like calves are butchered every day.”

THE SPECTRE MONK,

'■P'HE faaious tavern known as the Pomme cF^Eve was
situated in the University, at the corner of the Paie
de la Eoudelle and the Eue du Bfitonuier. It was a large,
low room on the ground-floor, with an arched roof, the
central spring of which rested on a huge wooden pillar
painted yellow ; there were tables in every direction, shin-
ing pewter jugs hung on, the -wall, there were always
plenty of topers, lots of girls, a window looking on the
street, a vine at the door, and over tlm door a creakin'^
piece of sheet-iron, on which were painted a woman and
an apple, rusted by the rain and swinging in the wind
on an iron rod. This kind of weathercock, which over-
looked the pavement, was the sign.

THE SPECTRE MONK.

81

Night was falling ; the streets were dark. The tavern,
full of candles, iiared from a distance like a forge in the
gloom ; a noise of glasses, feasting, oaths, and quarrels es-
caped from the broken window-panes. Through the mist
with which the heat of the room covered the glazed case-
ment in front of the inn swarmed a myriad confused
figures, and from time to time a ringing burst of laughter
was heard. People passing, intent on their own affairs,
hastened by that noisy window without a glance ; but
now and thou some little ragged boy would raise him-
self on tiptoe to the window-sill^, and scream into the
tavern the old mocking cry with which drunkards were
often greeted at this period : —

Back to yOiir glasses,

Ye di’uuken, drunken as.ses.”

One man, however, marched imperturbably up and down
in front of the noisy tavern, looking in continually, and
never stirring farther away from it than a pikeman from
his sentry-box. His cloak was pulled up to bis very nose.
This cloak he had just bought from the old-clothes man
who lived hard by the Pomme d’Eve, doubtless to shield
himself from the chill of the March evening, perhaps
to hide his dress. From time to time he paused before
the dim panes set in lead, listened, looked, and stamped
his feet impatiently.

At last the tavern door opened. This seemed to he what
he was waiting for. Two tipplers came out. The ray
of light which escaped through the door, for a moment
reddened their jovial faces. The mail with the cloak

82

NOTKE-BAME.

took up Ids position under a porch on the other side of
the street.

Thunder and guns ! said one of the two drinkers.
'' It will strike seven directly. It is tlie hour for my
appointment.”

I tell you,” resumed his companion, with a thick ut-
terance, ‘‘that I do not live in the Eue des Mauvaises-
Paroles, indignus qui inter mala veria habitat. My lodg-
ings are in the Eue Jean-Pain-Mollet, in vico Johamds-
Pain-Molkt You are more unreasonable than a uni-
corn, if you say to the contrary. Everybody knows that
he who has once climbed upon a bear’s back is never
afraid ; but you 've a fine nose for scenting out dainty bits
like Saint-Jacques de THOpital.”

'' Jehan, my friend, you are drunk,” said the other.

He replied, staggering, So it pleases you to say,
Phoebus ; but it is well proven that Plato had the profile
of a himting-dog.”

The reader has undoubtedly recognized our two worthy
friends, the captain and the student. It seems tliat the
man lurking in the shadow had also recognized them ;
for he followed with slow steps all the zigzags which
the student forced the captain to describe, tlie latter, a
more hardened drinker, having preserved entire self-pos-
session. By listening carefully, tlie man with the cloak
was able to catch the whole of the following interesting
conversation : —

Body of Bacchus ! do try to walk straight, Master
Bachelor. You know that I shall have to leave you. Here
it is seven o’clock. I have an appointment with a woman.”

THE SPECTKE MONK.

83 "

Leave me then, do. I see fiery stars and spears. You
are like the Chateau de Dampmartin, which burst with
laughter.''

By my grandmother's warts, Jehaii 1 your nonsense is
rather too desperate. By the bye, Jehan, have n’t you
any money left ? "

“ Mr. Eector, there 's no mistake : the little butcher's
shop, imrva hoiicliGviar

''Jehan, friend Jehan! you know that I made an
appointment to meet that little girl at the end of the
Pont Saint-Michel ; that I can't Jake her anywhere but to
Mother Faloiirdel, the old hag on the bridge ; and that I
must pay for the room ; the white-whiskered old jade
gives no credit. Jehan, for pity's sake, have we drunk
up the priest’s whole purse ? Have n't you a penny
left ? "

"The consciousness that you have spent the rest of
your time well is a good and savory table-sauce."

" Thunder and blazes I A truce to your nonsense ! Tell
me, Jehan, you devil ! have you any money left? Give it
to me, by Heaven ’ or I will rob you, were you as leprous
as Job and as mangy as Omsar!"

" Sir, the Eue Galiache is a street which runs from the
Eiie de la Verrerie to the Eue de la Tixeranderie."

"Yes, yes, good friend Jehan, my poor comrade,
the Eue Galiache, — that 's all right, quite right , but,
ill Heaven's name, come to your senses ! I want
only a few pence, and my appointment is for seven
o'clock,"

"Silence all around, and pay attention to my song:

84

NOTKE^BAME.

* When the rats have eaten every case,

The king shall be lord of Arres’ race.

When the sea, so deep and wide,

Is frozen o’er at Saint John’s tide,

Across the ice we then shall see
The Arras men their city llee.' ”

“ There, then, scholar of Antichrist, the foul iiend iiy
away with you ! ” cried Phteb.us ; and he gave the tipsy
student a violent push, wliich sent him reeling against the
wall, whence he fell gently to the pavement of Philip
Augustus. Witii a remnant of that brotherly compassion
which never quite forsakes the heart of a toper, Plimbus
rolled Jehan with his foot over upon one of those pillows
of the poor which Providence keeps in readiness at every
street-corner in Paris, and which the rich scornfully stig-
matize as dunghills. The captain arranged Jehan's head
on an inclined plane of cabbage-stalks, and the student in-
stantly began to snore in a magnificent bass. However, all
rancor was not yet dead in the captain’s heart. So much
the worse for you if the devil’s cart picks you up as it
passes!” said he to the poor sleeping scholar; and he
went his way.

Tlie, man in the cloak, who liad not ceased following
him, paused for a moment beside the prostrate student,
as if uncertain ; then, heaving a deep sigh, he also de-
parted in the captain’s wake.

Like them, we will leave Jehan to sleep under the
friendly watch of the bright stars, and we too will follow
them, if it so please the reader.

As he emerged into the Piue Saint- Andre-des-Arcs,
Captain Phoebus discovered that some one was following

THE SPECTRE MONK

85

him. As he accidentally glanced behind him, he saw a
kind of shadow creeping behind him along the walls.
He stopped, it stopped; he walked on again, the shad-
ow also walked on. This troubled him but very little.
“ Pooh 1 ” said he to himself, “ I have not a penny about
me.’’

In front of the College d’Autun, he came to a halt. It
was at this college that he had passed through what he
was pleased to call his studies, and from a habit learned
in liis student days he never passed the statue of Car-
dinal Pierre Bertrand without stopping to mock at it.
lie therefore paused before the statue as iisuaL The
street was deserted, save for the shadow approaching
vslowly, — so slowly that he bad ample time to observe
that it wore a cloak and a hat. Coming close up to him,
it stopped, and stood more motionless than the statue of
Cardinal Bertrand itself ; but it fastened upon Phcebus a
pair of eyes full of that vague light seen at night in the
pupil of a cat’s eye.

The captain was brave, and would not have cared a
iarthing for a thief with a bludgeon in his hand ; but
this walking statue, this petrified man, froze his very blood.
At that time there were current in society strange stories
of the spectral monk, who prowled the streets of Paris by
night. Tliese tales now came confusedly to his mind, and
for some moments he stood stupefied ; at last he broke the
silence with a forced laugh, saying, —

“ Sir, if you are a robber, as I hope, you remind me of
a heron attacking a nutshell ; I am the son of a ruined
family, my dear fellow. Yom ’ve come to the wrong sliop ;

86

NOTRE-DAME.

you ’(1 better go next door. In the chapel of that college
there is a piece of the true cross set in silver.’’

The hand of the shadow was stretched from under the
cloak, and swooped down upon Phoebus’s arm with the
grip of an eagle’s talons. At the same time tlie shadow
spoke : —

Captain Phcebiis de Cljateaupers ! ”

“What the devil!” said Phoebus; “do you know my
name ? ”

“ I not only know your name,” replied the man in the
cloak, with his sepulchral voice, “ but I know that you
have an appointment this evening.”

“Yes,” answered the astonished Phoebus.

“ At seven o’clock.”

“ In fifteen minutes.”

“ At Mother Falourders,”

“ Exactly so.”

“ The old hag of the Pont Saint-Michel.”

“ Saint Michel the archangel, as the Pater Noster
sfrys.”

“ Impious wretch 1 ” muttered the spectre. “ With a
woman ? ”

“ Confiteof''

“ Whose name is — ”

“Esmeralda,” said Phoebus, cheerfully. lie had grad-
ually recovered all, his unconcern.

At this name, the shadow’s claws shook tlie captain’s
arm furiously.

“ Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers, you lie !”

Any one who could at this moment have seen the cap-

88

NOTEE-DAME.

tain's flaming face, his backward bound, vso violent that it
released him from the visedike grasp that held him, the
haughty air with which he clapped his hand to his sword-
hilt, and the gloomy immobility of the man in the cloak
in the presence of this rage, — any one wlio saw all this
would have trembled with fear. It was something like the
fight between Don Juan and the statue,

Christ and Satan ! ” cried the captain ; that is a word
which seldom greets the ears of a Cliateaupers ! You dare
not repeat it!"

You lie 1 said the shadow, coldly.

The captain gnashed his teeth. Spectre monk, phantom,
superstitions, all were forgotten at this instant. He saw
nothing but a man and an insult.

Ha 1 it is well ! " he stammered in a voice stifled by
rage. He drew his sword ; then, stuttering, — for anger
makes a man tremble as well as fear, — “Here! on the
spot! Now then! swords! swords? Blood upon these
stones 1 ”

But the other never stirred .When he saw his ad-
versary on his guard, and ready to burst with wrath, he
said, —

“ Captain Phcebiis,” — and his voice quivered with bit-
terness,- — “you forget your appointment.’'

The fits of passion of such men as Plnebus are like
boiling milk ; a drop of cold water is enough to check their
fury. At these simple words the sword which glittered
ill the captain’s hand was lowered.

“ Captain,” continued the man, “ to-morrow, the day
after to-morrow, in a month, in ten years, you will find

THE SPECTRE MONK.

89

me ready to cut your throat ; but keep your appoiutmeiit
first."

Indeed/' said Plioebus, as if trying to compound with
liis conscience, “a sword and a girl are both charming
things to encounter by appointment ; but I do not see
wliy I should miss one for the sake of the other, when I
might liave both."

He replaced liis sword in his scabbard.

'' Go to your appointment," replied the stranger.

Sir," answered Phoebus with some embarrassment,
''many thanks for your courtesy. You are right in saying
that to-morrow will be time enough for us to cut slashes
and buttonholes in Father Adam's doublet. I am oblige<i
to you for allowing me to pass another agreeable quai*ter
of an hour. I did indeed hope to put you to bed in the
gutter, and yet be in time for my fair one, — the more so
that it is genteel to keep the women waiting a little in
such cases. But you look to me like a determined dog, and
it is safer to put the party off until to-morrow. I will
therefore go to my appointment ; it is for seven o'clock, as
you know." Here Phoebus scratched his ear. "Ah, by
my halidom ! I forgot ; I have not a penny to pay the toll
for the use of the garret, and the old hag must be paid
in advance. She won't trust me."

" Here is money to pay her."

PhaVbus felt the stranger’s cold hand slip a large piece
of money into liis. He could not help taking the money
and squeezing the hand.

" By God 1" he exclaimed, “ you're a good fellow 1"

"One condition," said the mam "Prove to me that I

90

NOTBE-DAME.

was wrong, and that you spoke tlie truth. Hide me in
some corner where I can see whether this woman be really
she whose name you mentioned.”

“Oh,” answered Phoebus, “with all my heart! We
will take Saint Martha’s room; you can look in very
easily from the kennel beside it.”

“ Come on, then I ” said the shadow.

“ At your service,” replied the captain. “ I don’t know
whether or no you are Master Diabolus in invpria 'per-
sona : but let us be good friends for to-night ; to-morrow 1
will pay you all my debts, — of purse and sword.”

They set forth at a rapid pace. In a few moments the
sound of the river warned them that they stood on Pont
Saint-Micliel, then covered with houses.

“I will first introduce you,” said Phoebus to his com-
panion ; “ then I will go and fetch my charmer, who was
to wait for me near the Petit-Ch^telet.”

His comrade made no answer ; since they had walked
side by side he had not said a word. Phoebus stopped
before a low door and knocked loudly ; a light appeared
through the chinks of the door.

“ Who is there ? ” cried a mumbling voice.

“By Saint Luke’s face! By God’s jmsiou! By the
Eood I ” answered the captain.

The door opened instantly, and revealed to the new-
comers an old woman and an old lamp, both in a very
shaky state. The old woman was bent double, dressed in
rags ; her head shook ; she had very small eyes, wore a dish-
clout on her head, and her hands, face, and neck were cov-
ered with wrinkles ; her lips retreated under her gums,

THE-.'::.-SPECTRE BIONK.

91

and she liad tufts of white hair all around Iiei' mouth,
which gave her the demure look of a cat.

The interior of the hovel was as dilapidated as its mis-*
tress ; there were whitewashed Walls, black beams riirming
across the ceiling, a dis-
mantled fireplace, cob-
webs in every corner ; in
the middle of the room
stood a rickety collection
of tables and chairs ; a
dirty child played in the
ashes; and in the back-
ground a staircase, or
rather a wooden ladder,
led to a trap-door in th^
ceiling.

On entering this den Pheebus’s mysterious companion
pulled his cloal?: up to his eyes. But the captain, swearing
all the time like a Turk, hastened ^“^to make the sun flash
from a crown-piece/’ as our all-accomplished ifdguier
says. . . . .

'' Saint Martha’s room,” said he.

The old woman treated him like a lord, and put the
coin away in a drawer. It was the money which the man
in the black cloak had given Phmbus. Wliile lier back
was turned, the ragged, dishevelled little boy, who was
playing in the ashes, \vent adroitly to the drawer, took out
the crown-piece, and put in its place a dried leaf which he
had pulled from a fagot.

The old woman beckoned to the two gentlemen, as she

92

NOTRE-BAME.

called them, to follow her, and climbed the ladder beibre
them. On reaching the upper floor, she placed lier lamp
upon a chest ; and Phoebus, as one familiar with the house,
opened a door leading to a dark hole. Go in there, niy
dear boy/' said lie to his comrade. The man in the cloak
obeyed without a word ; the door closed behind him ; he
heard Phoebus bolt it, and a moment after go downstairs
again with the old woman. The light had disappeared.

TPIE ADVANTAGE OF WINDOWS OVERLOOKING
THE RIVEK.

LAU-UE FItOLLO (for we presume that the reader,
more clever than Phoebus, has discovered that this
spectral monk was no other than the archdeacon), Claude
Frollo groped about for some time in the gloomy hole
into which the captain had bolted him. It was one of
tlioso nooks such as architects sometimes leave at the
junction of the roof and outer wall. The vertical sec-
tion of this kennel — as Phoebus had .so aptly called it

94

NOTRE~DAME.

would have formed a triangle. Moreover, tliere was nei-
ther window nor loop-hole, and the pitch of the roof was
so steep that it was impossible to stand upright. Claude
therefore squatted in tlie dust and mortar which crumbled
beneath him. His head w'as burning; as he felt about
him with his hands, he found upon the ground a bit of
broken glass, which he pressed to his forehead, its cool-
ness somewhat refreshing him.

What went on at this moment in the archdeacon’s dark
soul ? God and himself alone knew.

According to what fatal order did he dispose in his
thoughts Esmeralda, Phadms, Jacques Charmolue, his
young brother, so greatly loved, deserted by him in tlie
mud, his archdeacon’s gowm, perhaps his reputation,
dragged through the mire of Mother Falourdel’s abode, —
all these images, all these adventures ? I cannot say ;
but it is certain that the ideas formed a horrible group
in his mind.

He waited a quarter of an hour ; he felt as if a century
had been added to his age. All at once he heard the
boards of the wooden staircase creak ; some one was
coming up. The trap-door opened ; a light appeared.
There was a considerable crack in the worm-eaten door
of Ins prison ; to this he glued his face. Thus he could
see everything that happened in the next room. The cat-
faced old woman first rose from the trap-door, lamp in
hand; then came Phcebiis, twirling his mustache; then
a third person — that lovely, graceful creature, Esmeralda.
The priest saw her rise from below like a dazzling appari-
tion. He trembled ; a cloud came before his eyes ; Ids

THE ADVANTAGE OF WINDOWS, ETC. 95

veins swelled to bursting; everything swam Ixdbre him;
he saw and heard nothing more.

When he recovered his senses, Phoe1)ns and Esmeralda
were alone, seated on the wooden chest beside the lamp,
whose light revealed to tlie archdeacon's eyes their two
youthful figures, and a miserable pallet at the back of
the garret.

Beside the pallet there was a window, through whose
panes, shattered like a cobweb upon whicli rain has fallen,
were seen a patch of sky, and the uiooii in the distance
resting on a bed of soft clouds.

The young girl was blushing, trembling, and confused.
Her long, drooping lashes shaded her flushed cheeks.
The officer, to whose face she dared not raise her eyes,
was radiant. Mechanically, and with a charming awk-
wardness, she drew meaningless lines on the bench with
her finger-tip, and then looked at her finger; Her feet
were hidden, for the little goat ^vas lying upon them.

Tlie captain was very gallantly arrayed ; at his wrists
and neck he wore embroidery, tlien considered, very
elegant.

Don Claude’ could scarcely hear what they said, for the
throbbing of his temples.

Lovers’ talk is very commonplace. It is a perpetual
I love you.” A very bare and very insipid phrase to an
indifferent ear, unless adorned with a few grace-notes;
but Claude was not an indilferent listener.

'' Oil,” said the girl, without raising her eyes, do not
despise me, my lord Phcebus! I feel that I am doing

96

NOTRE-BAME.

“Despise you, pretty child!’' replied the officer, witli
an air of extreme gallantry, — “ despise you I By God’s
passion! and why?”

“For coming here with you.”

“On that point, my beauty, we are not agreed. I
should not despise you, but hate you/’

Tlie young girl gazed at him in affright. “ Hate me !
What have I done ? ”

For requiring so much urging/’

“Alas!” said she, “that is because I am breaking a
sacred vow. I shall never find my parents ! The amii-
let will lose its virtue ; hut what does that matter ?
Why should I need father or mother now ? ”

So saying, she fixed upon the captain her large dark
eyes, moist with love and joy.

“ Deuce take me if I understand you I ” exclaimed
Phcebus.

Esmeralda was silent for a moment, then a tear fell
from her eyes, a sigh from her lips, and she said, “ Oh,
my lord, I love you ! ”

There was such an odor of chastity, such a charm of
virtue about the young girl, that Phcebus did not feel
wholly at his ease with her. -But this speech embold-
ened him. “You love me!” said he, with transport;
and he threw his arm around the gypsy’s waist. He
had only waited for such an opportunity.

The priest saw’- hinij and tested with the tip of his
finger the point of a dagger hidden in his bosom.

“Phoebus,” continued the gypsy girl, gently removing
the captain’s stubborn hands from her girdle, “you are

THE' advantage; O't' WIN ' ^ ■' 97 ,

good^ yon are generous, yon are kind; yon saved me, —
me, who am but a poor gypsy foundling. I have long
dreamed of an officer who should save my life. It was
of you I dreamed before I ever knew you, my Phmbiis ;
tlie image of my dreams had a gorgeous uniform like
yours, a grand air, a sword. Your name is Phoebus; it is
a beautiful name. I love your name; I love yoin* sword.
Draw your sword, Phcebus, and let me see it.”

“ Child ! ” said the captain; and he uiisheatlied his rapier
wdth a smile.

The gypsy girl studied the handle, the blade, examined
the letters on the hilt with adorable curiosity, and kissed
the sword, as she said, —

You are a brave man's sword. I love my captain.”

Phoebus again took advantage of the situation to im-
print on her lovely bent neck a kiss which made the girl
start up as red as a cherry. The priest ground his teeth
in the darkness at the sight.

“ Plicebus,” resumed the gypsy, let me talk to you.
Walk about a little, so that I may have a good look at
you, and hear your spurs jingle. How handsome you
are!”

The captain rose to gratify her, while he scolded her
with a smile of satisfaction : —

'' What a child you are I By the way, my charmer, did
you ever see me in my full dress uniform ? ”

'' Alas, no ! ” she replied,

''Well, that is really fine!”

Phcebus came back and sat down beside her, but much
nearer tlian before.

98

NOTRE-DAM^J.

Look IierOj my clear —

The gypsy gave him a few little taps or the lips with
lier pretty hand, with a childish playfulness full of gayety
and grace,

“ No, no, I will not listen. Do you love me ? I want
you to tell me if you love me.”

'' Do I love you, angel of my life!” cried the captain,
half kneeling before her. My body, my soul, my blood,
are yours. I am all yours, — all yours. I love you, and
never loved any one but you.”

The captain had so often repeated this plirase on many
a similar occasion, that he uttered it in a breatli, without
making a single mistake. At this passionate declaration
the gypsy turned toward the dirty ceiling, which took the
place of heaven, a look of angelic happiness. '' Oh,” she
murmured, at such a moment one might well wish to
die!”

Phcebus thought 'Hhe moment” a good one to steal
another kiss, which inflicted fresh torment on the wretched
archdeacon in his lair.

To die ?” exclaimed the amorous captain. ''What are
you talking about, my lovely angel ? It is just tlie time
to live, or Jupiter is but a paltry knave I Die a.t the be-
ginning of such a pleasant thing 1 By Saint Luke’s face,
what a joke ! that would never do I Listen, my dear
Similar — Esmenarda — Forgive me! but you have such
a vastly outlandish name; that I can never get it straight.
I hn forever getting entangled in it.”

"Good Heavens!” said the poor girl; "and I thought
the name pretty just for its oddness 1 But if you don’t

THE ADVANTAGE OE WINDOWS, ETC. 99

like it, I am (iiiite ready to change it for anything you
please.”

'' Ah ! do not cry for such a trifle, my dearest 1 It 's a
name to which one has to get used, that 's all Once I
have learned it by heart, it will be all right. jSTow listen,
my dear Similar: I adore you passionately. 1 love you
to such a degree that it is really marvellous. I know a
little girl who is bursting with rage about it — ”

The jealous damsel cut him short: ''Who is she?”

" What difference does that make to us ? ” said Phcebus ;
“do you love me ?”

“ Oh 1” said she.

“ Well, then, that is all that is necessary. You shall
see how I love yon, too. May the great devil Neptune
bestride me if I do not 'make you the happiest creature
in the world. We will have a pretty little room some-
where. I will review my archers under your windows.
They are all mounted, and make nothing of Captain
Mignon’s men. There are spearmen, cross-bowmen, and
culverin men. I will take you to see the great Paris mus-
ters at the Grange de Eiilly. It ’s a very fine siglit, — eighty
thousand lielmeted heads; thirty thousand bright liar-
nesses, coats of mail, or brigandines ; sixty-seven banners
of the various guilds; tlie standards of the Parliament,
the Oliamber of Accounts, the Treasury, the Assistants in
the Mint; in fact, tlie DeviTs own train 1 I will take you
to see the lions at the king’s palace, which are wild beasts ;
all the women like that/’

For some moments the young girl, wrapped in her
own delightful tlioughts, had been dreaming to tlie

100 NOTEE^BAME.

sound of Ms voice, without heeding the meaning of his
words.

Oh, how haj^py you will he ! ” continued the captain ;
and at the same time he gently unclasped the gypsy's
belt.

What are you doing ? " said she, quickly. This act of
violence startled her from her reverie.

Nothing, " answered Phoebus ; I was merely saying
that you must give up this ridiculous mountebank dress
when you come to live with me/'

When I live with you, my Pha^bus !" said the young
girl, tenderly.

She again became pensive and silent.

The captain, made bold by her gentleness, took her by
the waist without any resistance oh her part, then began
noiselessly to unlace the poor child’s bodice, and so dis-
arranged her neckerchief that the panting priest saw
the gypsy's lovely shoulder issue from the gauze, plump
and brown, like the moon rising through the mists on
the horizon.

The young girl let Phoebus have his way. She did
not seem conscious of wdiat he was doing. The bold cap-
tain's eye sparkled.

All at once she turned towards him.

'' Phoebus,” said she, with a look of infinite love, in-
struct me in your religion."

My religion I " cried the captain, bursting into laugh-
ter. I instruct you in my religion I Thunder and guns I
What do you want with my religion ? ”

To he married to you,” she answered.

101

. , THE ADVANTAGE OF WINDOWS, ETC.

The Gaptain's face assumed an expression of mingled
smTirise, scoriv recklessness, arid evil passioii.

Nonsense ! ” said he. Why should we marry ? ’ ’

The gypsy turned pale, and let lier head sink sadly on
her breast.

“ My pretty love,'’ tenderly added Pha^biis, ''what are
all these foolish ideas ? Marriage is nothing 1 Is=any one
less loving for not having spouted a little Latin in some
priest's shop ?”

So saying in his sweetest voice, he approached ex-
tremely near the gypsy girl; his caressing hands had re-
sumed their place around the lithe, slender waist, and his
eye kindled more and more, and everything- showed that
Master Phoebus was about to enjoy one of those moments
in which Jupiter himself commits so many follies that the
good Homer is obliged to call in a cloud to help him.

But Don Claude saw all. The door was made of de-
cayed puncheon staves, which left ample room between
them for the passage of his hawk-like glance. The brown -
skinned, l)road-sl)ouldered priest, hitherto condemned to
the austere rule of the convent, shuddered and burned
at this scene of love, darkness, and passion. The young
and lovely girl, her garments in disorder, abandoning
herself to this ardent young man, made his veins run
molten lead. An extraordinary agitation shook him ; Iiis
eye sought, with lustful desire, to penetrate beneatli all
these unfastened pins. Any one who had at this mo-
ment seen the face of the unhappy man glued to the
worm-eaten bars, might have thought he saw a tiger
glaring from his cage at some jackal devouring a gazelle.

102

NOTEE-DAME.

His pupils glowed like a candle through the cracks of
the door.

Suddenly, with a rapid motion, Phcehiis removed the
gypsy's neckerchief. The poor child, who still sat pale
and dreamy, sprang up with a start; she retreated hastily
from the enterprising officer, and, glancing at her bare
throat and shoulders, red, confused, and dumb with shame,
she crossed her lovely arms over her bosom to cover it.
But for the flame which mantled her cheeks, any one
seeing her thus silent and motionless, might have tlioiiglit
her a statue of Modesty. Her eyes were downcast.

Meantime the captain’s action had exposed the myste-
rious amulet which she wore about her neck.

What's this?” said he seizing this pretext to draw
nearer to the beautiful creature Avhom he had alarmed.

^^Do not touch it!" replied she quickly; ‘'it is rny pro-
tector. It will helj) me to find my family if I am still
worthy of it. Oh, leave me, Mr. Captain 1 My mother 1
my poor mother! Mother, where are you? Help me
now ! For Heaven's sake, Mr. Phcebiis, give me back my
neckerchief I ”

Phoebus drew back, and said in a cold tone, —

“ Oh, young lady ! I see very plainly that you do not
love me!”

“ I do not love him ! ” exclaimed the unhappy creature
and at the same time she hung upon the captain, whom
she drew to a seat by her side. ‘‘I not love you, my
Phoebus ? How can you say so, you wicked man, to break
my heart? Oh, come! take me, take everything! Do
with me what you will ; I am yours. What do I care for

THE. ADVANTAGE DE -WINDOWS, ETC. ■ '103

tlie amulet! What is my mother to me now ! You are ni}'
mother, for I love you ! Phoebus, roy adored Pha3biis, do
you see me ? It is I, look at me; it is that little girl
wliom you cannot repulse, who comes, — wlio comes lierself
in search of you. My soul, iny life, my person, are yours :
I am all yours, my captain. Ho, then, we will not marry ;
it would trouble you ; and what am I ? A miserable
child of the gutter ; while you, my Phoebus, are a gentle-
man. A fine thing, truly, — a dancing-girl to many an
officer I I was mad. Ho, Phoebus, no; I will be your mis-
tress, your amusement, your pleasure, when you will ;
always yours. I am only made for that, — to be soiled,
despised, dishonored ; but what matter ? I sliall be loved.
I shall be the proudest and happiest of women. And
when I grow old or ugly, Phoijbus, when I am no longer
fit to love you, my lord, you will still suffer me to serve
you. Otliers may embroider your scarfs; but I, your
servant, will take care of them. You will let me polish
your spurs, brusli your coat, dust your riding-l^oots. You
will have this much pity for me, my Plicebus, will you
not? Meantime, take me! There, Phoebus, all this be-
longs to you, only love me ! We gypsy girls need nothing
else, — nothing but air and love/’

As she said this, she flung her arms around the officer’s
3 )eck ; she gazed up into his face imploringly, and with a
lovely smile through her teirs. Her delicate throat rubbed
against liis clotli doublet with its rough embroideries. She
threw herself across his lap, her beautiful body half re-
vealed. The enraptured captain pressed his burning lips
to those beautiful bi'owu slipuHeiu The young giil, lier

NOTEE-DAME.

eyes fixed on the ceiling, her head thrown back, shuddered
and trembled at his kiss.

All at once above the head of Phoebus she saw another
ad, — a livid, green, convulsed face, with the look of a

THE ADVANTAGE OF WINDOWS ETC.

IG.5.

soul in torment ; beside this face there was a hand which
held a dagger. It was the face and the hand of the
priest; he had broken open the door, and he was
tliere. Pha^bus could not see him. The girl was motion-
less, frozen, mute, at the frightful apparition, like a dove
which chances to raise its head at the iristant when the
sea-eagle glares into its nest with fiery eyes.

She could not even utter a cry. She saw the dagger
descend upon PliCBbus and rise again reeking.

'' Malediction ! said the captain ; and he fell.

She fainted.

As her eyes closed, as all consciousness left her, she
fancied she felt a fiery touch upon her lips, a kiss more
burning than the torturer's red-hot iron.

When she recovered her senses she was surrounded by
the soldiers of the watch, some of whom were just carry-
ing oft’ the captain bathed in his own blood ; the priest had
vanished; the wdiidow at the back of tlie room, which
opened upon the river, was wide open ; some one picked
up a cloak whicli he supposed belonged to the officer, and
she heard the soldiers around her say, —

She is a sorceress who has stabbed a captain.’'

BOOK EIGHTH

THE CEOWN CHANGED TO A DEY LEAD

/^EIFOOIEE and the entire, Court of Mir-
acles were in a terrible state of anxiety.
Esmeralda had not been heard from for a whole
long month, which greatly grieved the Duke of Egypt
and his friends the Vagrants; nor did any one know
what had become of her goat, which redoubled Grin-
goire's grief. One night the gypsy girl had disappeared,
and since then had given no sign of life. All search
for her was vain. Some malicious dummy chuckers^

^ Sham epileptics.

THE CROWN CHANGED TO A DRY LEAF. 107

told Grringoire that they had met her that same even-
ing near the Pont Saint-Michel, \valking with an offi-
cer; but this husband, after the fashion of Bohemia, was an
incredulous philosoplier, and besides, he knew better than
any one else how chaste his wife was. He had been able
to judge what invincible modesty resulted from, the two
combined virtues of the amulet and the gypsy, and he had
made a mathematical calculation of the resistance of that
chastity multiplied into itself. He was therefore quite
easy on this point.

But lie could not explain her disappearance. It was a
great grief to him, and he would have grown thin from
fretting, had such a thing been possible. Pie had forgotten
everything else, even his literary tastes, even his great
work, “ Be> figitris rcgularihiis et irregidaribus,'' which he
intended to have printed with the first money which he
might have (for he raved about printing over since he
had seen the '' TJiclascalon"' of Hiigues de Saint- Victor
printed with, the celebrated types of Vindelin de Spire).

One day, as he was walking sadly by the Tournelle, he
noticed a crowd before one of the doors of the Palace of
Justice.

What 's the matter ? ” he asked a young man who was
Just coming out.

•'"I don’t know, sir,” replied the young man. “I hear
tliat they are trying a woman who murdered a man-at-
arms. As it seems that there was witcliciaft about it, tlie
bishop and the judge of the Bishop’s Court have inter-
fered in the matter; and my brotlier, wlio is archdeacon of
Josas, spends bis entire time here. Now, I wauited to

108

NOTBE-DAME.

speak to him; but I could not get at him on account of
the crowd, which annoys me mightily, for I am in need of
money/’

'' Alas ! sir/’ said Gringoire, I wish I could lend you
some ; but if rny breeches are full of holes, it is not Itoiu
the weight of coins.”

He dared not tell the young man that he knew his
brother the archdeacon, whom he had not revisited since
the scene in the church, — a neglect which ensbarrassed
him.

Tlie student went his way, and Gringoire followed the
crowd, going up the stairs to the Great Hall. He con-
sidered that there was noticing like the sight of a criminal
trial to dispel melancholy, the judges being generally most
delightfully stupid. The people witli whom he had min-
gled walked on and elbowed one another in silence.
After a slow and tiresome progress through a long dark
passage which wound through the palace like the intes-
tinal canal of the ancient edifice, he reached a lov/ door
opening into a hall, which his tall figure enabled liim to
examine over the moving heads of the mob.

The hall was huge and ill-lighted, which made it seem
still larger. Evening was coming on ; the long pointed
wi^dow^s admitted but a faint ray of daylight, wliich faded
before it reached the vaulted ceiling, — an enormous lattice-
work of carved beams, whose countless figures seemed to
move confusedly in the shadow. There were already
several lighted candles here and there on the tables, and
shining upon , the heads of clerks bending over musty
papers. . The front of the hall was occupied by the crowed ;

THE CROWN CHANGED TO A DRY LEAE. 109

to the right and left there were lawyers in their robes,
and tables; in the background, upon a dais, a number of
judges, the last rows of whom were lost in the darkness ;
their faces were forbidding and unmoved. The wails were
plentifully sprinkled with fleurs-de-lis. A huge crucifix
was dimly visible over the heads of the judges, and every-
where there were pikes and halberds; tipped with fire by
the light of the candles.

Sir/' asked Gringoire of one of his neighbors, who
are all those people drawm up in line yonder, like prelates
in council ? ”

“Sir," said the neighbor, “those are the councillors of
the High Chamber on the right, and the councillors of
inquiry on the left, — the referendaries in black gowns, and
the masters in scarlet ones."

“ Yonder, above them," added Gringoire, “ who is that
big red -faced fellow in such a perspiration ? "

“ That is the president.”

“ And those sheep behind him ? " continued Gringoire,
who, as we have already said, did not love the magis-
tracy. This W‘ds perhaps partly due to the grudge which
he had borne the Palace of J ustice ever since his dramatic
jiiisadventure.

“Those are the masters of requests of the king's
household.”

“ And that boar in front of them ? ”

“That is the clerk to the ’Court of Parliament.”

“ And that crocodile on the right ? ”

“ Master Philippe Lheulier, advocate extraordinary to
the king."

110

NOTRE-BAME.

''And that big blacl^ cat on the left?''

" Master Jacques Charmolue, king's proxy to the Eccle-
siastical Oourtj with the officials."

"Now, then, sir," said Gringoire, "what are all these
worthy men doing here?"

"They are trying a case."

"Whom are they trying? I do not see the prisoner."

"It's a woman, sir. You cannot see her. She has
her back to us, and is hidden from us by the crowd.
Stay; there she is, where you see that group of halberds."

“ Who is the woman ? " asked Gringoire. " Do you
know her name ? "

" No, sir ; I have only just got here. I merely suppose
that there is sorcery in the case, because the judge of
the Bishop’s Court is present at the trial."

"Well," said our philosopher, "we will see all these
men of the gown devour human flesh. It is as good a
sight as any other."

" Sir," remarked his neighbor, " does n't it strike you that
Master Jacques Charmolue has a very amiable air?"

" Hum ! ” replied Gringoire. ^ " I always suspect an
amiability with pinched nostrils and thin lips.”

Here their neighbors demanded silence from the two
chatterers; an important piece of evidence \vas being
heard.

“ Gentlemen,” said an old woman in the middle of the
hall, whose face was so lost in the abundance of her gar-
ments that she looked like a walking rag-bag, — "gentle-
men, the thing is as true as it is true that my name is
Faloiirdel, and that I have lived for forty years on the

THE GROWN CHANGED TO A DRY LEAF. Ill',

Pont Saint-Michel, paying my rent, lord's dues, and quit-
rents punctually ; and the door is just opposite the house
of Tassin-Caillart the dyer, which is on the side looking
up stream; a poor old woman now, a pretty girl once,
gentlemen. Some one said to me only a few days ago,
"Mother Falourdel, don’t sit at your wheel and spin too
much of an evening; the Devil loves to eomb old women’s
distaffs with his horn. It is very certain that tlie spectre
monk who roamed about the Temple last year now haunts
the City, Mother Falourdel, beware lest he knock at
your door/ One evening I was spinning at my wheel;
there was a knock at the door. I asked who was there,
Some one swore roundly. I opened. Two men came in, —
one in black, with a handsome officer. I could only see the
eyes of the one in black, — two burning coals ; all the rest
was hat and cloak. This is what they said to me: "The
Saint Martha room.’ That is ray upstairs room, gentlemen,
my nicest one. They gave me a crown. I put the crown
in my drawer, and I said, " That shall be to buy tripe to-
morrow at the Gloriette shambles/ We went up. When
we got to the upper room, while my back was turned the
black man disappeared. This startled me a little. The
officer, who was as handsome as any great lord, went down-
stairs again with me. tie left the house. By the time I
had spun a quarter of a skein he was back with a lovely
young girl, — a puppet who would have shone like the sun
if her hair had been well dressed. She had with her a
goat, — a big goat. I have forgotten now whether it was
black or white. That bothered me. As for the girl, slie
was none of my business ; but the goat ! I don’t like those

112

NOTRE-DAME.

animals ; they have a beard and horns. They look like
men. And then, they savort)f sorcery. However, I said
nothing. I had the crown-piece. That was right, my
lord judge, wasn't it? I took tlie captain and the girl to
the upper room, and I left them alone, — that is, with the
goat. I went down and began to spin again. You must
know that my house has a ground-floor and a floor above ;
it overlooks the river at the back, like all the rest of the
houses on the bridge, and the window on the ground-floor
and the one above l)oth open upon tlie water. As I say, I
was spinning. I don't know how I fell to thinking of tlie
goblin monk, of whom the goat had reminded me ; and then,
that pretty girl was so queerly rigged out. All at once I
heard a scream upstairs, and something fell on the floor,
and the window opened. I ran to my window, which is
just under it, and I saw a dark mass fall past me into
the water. It was a phantom dressed like a priest. It
was bright moonlight. I saw as pflainly as possible. He
swam away towards the City. Then, all in a tremble, I
called the watch. Those gentlemen entered, and being
somewhat merry, and not knowing what the matter was,
they fell to beating me. But I soon explained tilings to
them. We went upstairs, and what did we find? My
poor room all stained with blood, the captain stretched
out at full length with a dagger in his throat, the girl
pretending to be dead, and the goat in a terrible fright.
'Well done!' said I; 'it will take me more than a fort-
night to scrub up these boards. I shall have to scrape
them ; it will be a dreadful piece of work ! ' Tliey carried
off , the officer, — poor young lUan I — and the girl, ail

THE CROWN CHANGED TO A DRY LEAF. 113

dishevelled and in disorder. But stay ; the worst of all
is that next day, wdien I went to get the crown to buy
my tripe, I found a withered leaf in its place,”

The old woman paused. A murmur of horror ran
round the room.

'^The phantom, the goat, and all that, savor of sorcery,”
said one of Gringoire's neighbors.

does that withered leaf!” added another.

''No doubt,” continued a third, "the girl was a witch,
who was in league with the goblin monk to plunder
officers.”

Gringoire himself was inclined to consider the whole
story both terrible and probable.

"Woman Falourdel,” said the president, majestically,
" have you nothing more to tell the court ? ”

" No, my lord,” replied the old woman, " except that
in the report my house was called a dirty, rickety hut,
which is an outrageous way to talk. The houses on the
bridge are not much to look at, because there are so
many people there ; but all the same even butchers don't
scorn to live there, and some of them are rich folks, and
married to very neat, handsome women.”

The magistrate who had reminded Gringoire of a
crocodile now rose.

" Silence ! ” said he. " I beg you, gentlemen, not to
lose sight of the fact that a dagger was found upon the
prisoner. Woman Falourdel, did you bring that leaf into
which the crown-piece which the evil spirit gave you
was changed ? ”

" Yes, my lord,'' replied she ; I found it. Here it is,”

114

NOTRE-DxlME.

An usher handed the dead leaf to the crocodile, who
shook his head mournfally, and passed it to the presi-
dent/ who sent it oil to the king’s proxy to the Eccle-
siastical Court; and in this way it went the round of
the room.

''It is a birch-leaf/ said Master ejacques Charmolue.
This was a fresh proof of magic.

A councillor next took up tlie word.

" Witness, two men went upstairs together in your
house. Tlie black man, — whom you finst saw disappear,
and afterwards swim the Seine in a priest’s gown, — and
* the officer. Wiiich of the two gave you the money ? ”

The old woman thought for a moment, and said, " It
was the officer.”

A confused clamor ran through tlie crowd.

"Ah !” tliought Gringoire, " that shakes iny conviction.”

However, Master Philippe Lheiilier, advocate extraoi'-
dinaiy to the king, interfered afresh.

"I must remind you, gentlemen, that in his deposition,
written at his bedside, the murdered officer, while he
declares that he. had a vague idea at tlie instant the
man in black accosted, him that it might easily be the
goblin monk, added tliat the phantom had urged him to
keep his appointment with the prisoner ; and upon his
remarking that he had no money, gave liim the crown,
which the said officer paid away to Motlier Falourdel.
Therefore, the crown was a coin from hell.”

This conclusive observation seemed to dispel all the
doubts of Gringoire and the other sceptics in the
audience.

THE CROWN CHANGED TO A DRY LEAF. Ho

'' Geiitleinen, you liave the brief/’ added the king’s ad-
Yocate, sitting down ; '' you can consult the statement of
Idicebus de Oh^teaupers.’’

At the sound of this name the prisoner rose; her
head appeared above the crowd. The terrified Gringoire
recognized Esmeralda.

She was pale ; her hair, once so gi^acefully braided and
spangled with sequins, fell about her in disorder; her
lips were livid; her hollow eyes were horrible. Alas I

" Phoebus ! ” said she, wildly, " where is he ? Oh, gen-
tlemen, before you kill me, in pity tell me if he still
livesl"

" Be silent, woman I ” replied the president ; " that does
not concern us.”

'' Oh, have mercy! Tell me if he is alive ! ” she repeated,
clasping her beautiful but emaciated hands ; and her
chains rattled as she moved,

"Well,” said the kings advocate, dryly, "he is dying!
Are you satisfied?”

The wretched girl fell back upon her seat, voiceless,
tearless, white as a waxen image. .

The president leaned towards a man. standing at his
feet, with a golden cap and a black gown, a chain about
his neck, and a wand in his hand.

"Usher, bring in the other prisoner.”

All eyes were turned upon a small door which opened,
and to Gringoire’s great dismay a pretty goat, with gilded
horns and hoofs, appeared. The dainty creature paused
a moment on the threshold, stretching her neck as if,
perched on the point of a rook^ she had a vast horizon

116

NOTEE-DAME.

before her. All at once she saw the gypsy girl, and
leaping over the table and the head of a clerk with two
bounds, she was at her knees; then she curled herself
gracefully at the feet of her mistress, imploring a word
or a caress; but the prisoner remained motionless, and
even poor Djali could not win a look from her.

“Wliy, but — That is the ugly beast I told you
about,’' said old Falourdel ; '' and I recognize the pair of
them well enough ! ”

Jacques Charmolue interrupted her.

“ If it please you, gentlemen, we will proceed to exam-
ine the goat.”

Such was indeed the other prisoner. Nothing was
simpler at that time tlian to bring a suit for witchcraft
against an animal Among other details, we find in the
provost’s accounts for 1466 a curious item of the costs
of the trial of Gillet-Soulart and liis sow, ^‘executed for
their demerits,” at CorbeiL Everything is set down, —
the cost of the pen in which the sow was imprisoned,
the five hundred bundles of short fagots brought from
the port of Morsant, the three pints of wine and the
bread for the victim's last repast, fraternally sliared by
the executioner ; even the eleven days' feeding and keep
of the sow, at eight Paris pence each. Sometimes tlmy
went even beyond animals. The capitularies of Cbarle-.
magne and Louis the Debonair inflict severe penalties
upon those fiery phantoms who take the liberty of ap-
pearing in mid-air.,

Meantime the king's proxy to the Ecclesiastical Court
cried aloud : ''If the devil possessing this goat, and whi(*,li

i

THE CROWN CHANGED TO A DRY LEAF. 117

ha.s resisted every exorcism, persist in liis evil deeds,
if he terrify the court with them, we warn him that
we shall be compelled to send him to the gibbet or the
stake.”

Gringoire was in a cold perspiration. Charmolue took
I'rora a table the gypsy girl’s tambourine, and presenting it
to the goat in a particular way, he asked the creature :

“What time is it?”

The goat looked at him with an intelligent eye, lifted
her gilded hoof, and struck seven blows. It was indeed
seven o’clock. A movement of terror ran through the
crowd.

Gringoire could not restrain himself.

118

NOTKE-BAME.

“Shs is lost!” he cried aloud; '\you see tliat she
does ii’t know what she is doing.”

Silence among the people at the end of the hall ! ”
said the usher, sharply.

Jacques Charmolue, by the aid of the same mananivres
with the tambourine, made the goat perform various other
tricks as to the clay of the month, the month of the year,
etc., which the reader lias already witnessed. And, by
an optical illusion common to judicial debates, those same
spectators who had perhaps more than once applauded
the innocent pranks of DJali in the public streets, were
terrified by them within the walls of the Palace of Justice.
The goat was clearly the Devil.

It was still worse when, the king's proxy having
emptied out upon the floor a certain leather bag full of
movable letters, which Djali wore about lier neck, the
goat selected with her foot the separate letters spell-
ing out the fatal name ^'Phoehus.” The spells to which
the captain had fallen a victim seemed to be irresistibly
demonstrated ; and, in all eyes, the gypsy girl — tliat en-
chantiug dancer wlio had so often dazzled the passers-by
witli her grace — was nothing but a horrible witcli.

Moreover, she gave no sign of life ; neitlier the pretty
pranks of Djali, nor the threats of the magistrates, nor the
muttered curses of the audience seemed to reacli her ear.

In order to rouse her, an officer was forced to sliake her
most unmercifully, the president raising his voice sol-
emnly as he said : —

Girl, you are of tlie gypsy race, addicted to sorceries.
You, with your accomplice, the bewitched goat involved in

THE CROWN CHANGED TO A DRY LEAP. Il9

tlie cliarge, did, upon the iiiglifc of the 29tli of Miircl]
last, liuirder and stab, in league with the powers of dark-
ness, by the aid of charms and spells, a captain of the
king’s troops, one Phoebus de Chateaiipers. Do you per-
sist in denying this ?”

"'Horrible ! ” cried the young girl, hiding her face in her
hands. " My Pluebus ! oh, this is indeed hell 1 ”

" Do you persist in your denial ? ” coldly asked the
president.

" Certainly I deny it I ” said she, in terrible accents ;
and she rose to her full height, her eyes flashing.

The president continued bluntly : —

Then how do you explain the facts alleged against
you ? ”

She answered in a broken voice, —

" I liave told you already. I do not know. It was a
priest, — a priest whom I do nob know ; an infernal priest
who has long pursued me ! ”

" There it is,” said the judge ; " the goblin monk.”

" Oh, my lords, have pity ! I aui only a poor girl.”

" A gypsy,” said the judge.

Master Jacques Charmoliie said gently, —

In view of the prisoner’s painful obstinacy, I demand
tliat she be put to the rack.”

" Agreed,” said the president.

Tiie wretched girl shuddered. Still, slie rose at the
order of the halberdiers, and walked witli quite firm stej.),
preceded by Charmolue and the priests of the Bishop’s
Court, between two rows of halberds, towards a low door,
winch suddenly opened and closed beliind her, making

120

NOTRE-DAMII.

the unhappy Gringoire feel as if she had been devoured
by some awful monster.

As she disappeared, a plaintive bleat was heard. It was
the little goat mourning for her.

The hearing was over. A councillor remarked that the
gentlemen were tired, and that it would be a long time
for them to wait until the torture was over; and the
president replied that a magistrate should be ever ready
to sacrifice himself to his duty.

What a disagreeable, -tiresome jade,” said an old judge,
to force us to send her to the rack when we have not
supped!”

^.sssis;sr.3|;)|

SEQUEL TO THE CROWN CHANGED
TO A DRY LEAE.

A fter going up a few steps
and down a few steps in

corridors so dark that they were lighted with lamps at
midday, Esmeralda, still surrounded by her dismal es-
cort, was pushed by the sergeants of the Palace into a
room of forbidding appeai’anoe. This room, round in form,
occupied the ground-floor of one of those great towers
which still rise above the layer of modern structures with
which the new Paris has covered the old city. There were
no windows in this vault, nor was there any opening save
the low entrance closed by a huge iron door. Still, there

122

NOTRE-DAME.

was no lack of light ; a furnace was built in the thickness
of the wall 5 a vast fire had been kindled in it, which
filled the vault with its red glow, and robbed a paltry
candle, placed in a corner, of all its radiance. The iron
grating which served to close the furnace was just now
raised, only showing, at the mouth of the flaming chasm
against the dark wall, the lower edge of its bars, like a
row of sharp black teeth set at regular intervals, which
made the furnace look like the mouth of one of those
legendary dragons that spit forth fire. By the light
which it cast, the prisoner saw, all around the room, ter-
rible instruments whose use she did not undeLstand. In
the middle of the room was a leather mattress laid almost
flat upon the ground, over which hung a strap with a
buckle, attached to a copper ring held by a flat-nosed mon-
ster carved on the keystone of the vaulted ceiling. Pin-
cers, nippers, and broad ploughshares filled the interior of
the furnace, and glowed in a confused white-hot heap upon
the living coals. The blood-red light of the furnace illu-
minated in the entire room nothing but a mass of horrible
objects.

This Tartarus was known as “ the torture-chamber.’^

Upon the bed sat carelessly Pierrat Torterue, the sworn
torturer. His assistants, two square-faced gnomes wdth
leather aprons and linen breeches, were stirring the iron
instruments upon the coals.

In vain the poor girl strove to summon all her cour-
age ; as she entered the room a feeling of terror overcame
her.

. The sergeants of the Bailiff of the Palace ranged them^

SEQUEL TO THE CROWN. CHANGED, ETC, 123

selves on one side, the priests of the Bishop’s Court on the
other. A clerk, pen, ink, and paper, and a table were in
one corner.

Master Jacques Charmolue approached the girl with a
very sweet smile, saying, —

''Do you still persist in your denial, my dear child? ”

" Yes,” replied she in a faint voice.

"In that case,” resumed Charmolue, "it will be our
very painful duty to question you more urgently than we
could wish. Be kind enough to take your seat on that
bed. Master Pierrat, make room for the young lady, and
close the door.”

Pierrat rose with a grunt.

/'If I close the door,” he muttered, "my fire will
go out”

" Very well, my dear fellow,” replied Charmolue ; " then
leave it open.”

But Esmeralda still stood. That leather bed, upon
which so many wretches had writhed in torment, alarmed
her. Terror froze the marrow in her bones; she stood
there, stupefied and bewildered. At a sigh from Char-
molue, the two assistants took hold of her and seated
her upon the bed. They did not hurt her; but when
they touched her, when the leather touched her, she
felt all the blood in her body flow back to her heart.
She cast a desperate look around the room. She seemed
to see all those monstrous tools of torture, which were
to the instruments of every sort which she had hitherto
seen, what bats, spiders, and wood-lice are to birds and
insects, moving and advancing towards her from every

124

NOTRE-DAME.

direction, to crawl over her and bite her and pinch
•■■•■.her. ■ ■

Where is the doctor ? asked Charmoliie.

"'Here” replied a black gown which she had not no-
ticed before. ^

She shivered.

Young lady ” resumed the caressing voice of the king’s
proxy to the Ecclesiastical Court, “ for the third time,
do you persist in denying those things of which you are
accused ? ”

This time she could only nod her head. Her voice
failed her.

'‘You persist?” said Jacques Charmolue. "Then I am
extremely sorry, but I must perforin the duty of my
office.”

" Mr. Proxy,” said Pierrat, abruptly, " with what shall
we begin ? ”

Charmolue hesitated a moment, with the doubtful ffice
of a poet in search of a rhyme.

" With the buskin,” said he at last.

The unfortunate girl felt herself so wliolly forsaken
by God and man, that her head fell upon her breast like
a lifeless thing destitute of all strength.

The torturer and the doctor apprc ached her together.
M the same time the two assistants began to rummage
in their hideous arsenal.

At the clink of that frightful heap of iron, the un-
happy creature trembled like a dead frog when galvanism
is applied to it. " Oh,” she murmured in so low a tone
that no one heard it, — "oli, nay Phoebus 1” Then she re-

SEQUEL TO THE CROWN CHANGED, ETC. 125

lapsed into her former iinmohility and mavble-like silence.
The sight would have rent any heart save the hearts of
judges. She seemed some poor sinning soul questioned
by Satan at the scarlet gates of hell. Could it be that
this gentle, fair, and fragile creature, a poor grain of millet
given over by human justice to be ground in the fearful
mills of torture, was the miserable body upon which that
frightful array of saws, wheels, and racks was to fksteii, —
the being whom the rough hands of executioners and
pincers were to handle ?

But the liorny fingers of Pierrat Torteriie’s assistants
had already brutally bared that charming leg and that
tiny foot, which had so often amazed the by~standers
with their grace and beauty in the streets of Paris.

'' ’T is a pity ! ” growled the torturer, as he looked at
the dainty and delicate limb.

Had the archdeacon been present, he would certainly
have recalled at this moment his symbol of the spider
and the fly. Soon the wretched victim saw, through a
cloud which spread before her eyes, the buskin approach ;
soon she saw her foot, locked between the iron-bound
boards, hidden by the hideous machine. Then terror re-
stored her strength.

"'Take it off!” she cried frantically ; and starting up
all dishevelled, " Mercy 1 ”

She sprang from the bed to fling herself at the feet of
the king's proxy ; but her leg was held by the heavy muss
of wood and iron, and she sank down upon the buskin,
more helpless than a bee with a leaden weight upon its

wing.

126

NOTHE-DAME.

At a sign from Oharrnolue she was replaced upon the
bed, and two coarse hands bound about her slender waist
the strap which hung from the ceiling.

For the last time, do you confess the facts in the
case ? ” asked Charmolue with his unshaken benevolence.

I am innocent ”

Then, young lady, how do you explain the circum-
stances brought against you ? ”

“Alas! sir, I do not know!”

“Then you deny everything ?”

“Everything!”

“ Proceed,” said Charmolue to Pierrat.

Pierrat turned the handle of the screw-jack, the buskin
contracted, and the wretched girl uttered one of tliose
terrible shrieks which defy all orthography in any human
language.

“ Stop I ” said Charmolue to Pierrat. “ Do you coilfess ? ”
said he to the gypsy.

“ Everything ! ” cried the miserable girl. “ I confess, I
confess I Mercy ! ”

She had not calculated her strength when she braved
the torture. Poor child! her life tlius far had been so
joyous, so sweet, so smooth, the first pang Amnquished
her.

“ Humanity compels me to tell you,” remarked the
king’s proxy, “that if you confess, you can look for
nothing but death.”

“ I hope so, indeed 1 ” said she. And she fell back upon
the leather bed, almost fainting, bent double, suspended
by the strap buckled aimmd her waist,

SEQUEL TO THE GROWN CHANGED, ETC. 127

“ There, my beauty, hold up a little/' said Master Pierrat,
lifting her. ‘" You look like the golden sheep which hangs
on my Lord of Burgundy's neck.”

Jacques Charmolue raised his voice, —

"‘Clerk, write. Young gypsy girl, you confess your
complicity in the love-feasts, revels, and evil practices of
hell, with wizards, demons, and witches ? Answer ! ”

“ Yes,” said she, in so low a voice that it was scarcely
more than a whisper.

"" You confess that you have seen the ram which Beelze-
bub reveals in the clouds to summon his followers to the
Witches' Sabbath, and which is only seen by sorcerers ? ”

"" Yes.”

"" You confess that you have worshipped the heads of
Bophomet, those abominable idols of the Templars ? ”
“Yes.”

“ That you have held constant intercourse with the
Devil in the shape of a tame goat, included in the
trial ? ”

“Yes.”

“ And, finally, you acknowledge and confess that, with
the help of the foul fiend and the phantom commonly
called the goblin monk, on the night of the 29th of March
last you did murder and assassinate a certain captain
named Phcebus de Ch^teaiipers ? ”

She raised her large steady eyes . to the magistrate's face,
and answered as if mechanically, without any effort or
convulsion, —

“Yes.”

It was plain that she was utterly broken.

128

NOTKE-DAME.

'‘Write, clerk,” said Cliarmolue; and addressing the
torturers: “Eelease the prisoner, and lead her back to
the court-room ”

When the prisoner was unshod,” the king’s proxy
examined her foot, still numb with pain.

“ Come 1 ” said he ; “ there is no great harm done. Yon
screamed in time. You can dance yet, my beauty.”

Then he turned to his companions from the Bishop’s
Court —

“So justice is enlightened at last! That’s a comfort,
gentlemen ! Tlie young lady will bear witness that we
have acted with the utmost gentleness.”

END OE THE CROWN CHANGED TO
A DRY LEAF.

XT 7 HEN she returned to the audience-chamber, pale
^ » and limping, she was greeted with a general buzz
of pleasure. On the part of the audience, it was caused by
that feeling of satisfied impatience which is felt at the
theatre, at the end of the final intermission, when the
curtain rises and the last act begins. On the part of the
judges, it came from a prospect of supping ere long. The
little goat also bleated with joy. She tried to run to
meet her mistress, but she was tied to the bench.

Night had now fallen. The candles, whose number had
not been increased, cast so little light that the walls of
the court-room could not be seen. Siiadows wrapped every-
thing in a sort of mist. The apatlietic faces of some of
the judges hould just be distinguished in the gloom.
Opposite them, at the extreme end of the long hall, they

130

NOTBE-BAME.

could make out a vague wMte patch against th
background. It was the prisoner.

She had dragged herself painfully to her place. When
Charmoliie had magisterially installed himself in his; he
sat down^ then rose, and said, without too great a show of
vanity at his success, '' The prisoner has confessed every-
thing.”

Gypsy girl,” began the president, have you confessed
all your crimes of sorcery, prostitution, and murder com-
mitted upon Phoebus de Ch^teaupers ? ”

Her heart sank within her, and she sobbed aloud in the
darkness.

'"Whatever you please,” she replied feebly; "but kill
me quickly!”

" Sir Proxy to the Ecclesiastical Court,” said the presi-
dent, " the court is ready to hear your requisitions.”

Master Charmolue drew forth a tremendous bundle of
papers, and began to I’ead, with many gestures, and the
exaggerated emphasis common to lawyers, a Latin speech,
in which all the evidence produced during the trial was
set forth in Ciceronian periphrases, flanked by quotations
from Plautus, his favorite comic author. We regret thai>
we cannot present our readers with this remarkable piece
of oratory. The speaker delivered it with wonderful effect.
Long before he had ended the exordium, the perspiration
poured down his face, and his eyes seemed starting from
his head.

All at once, in the very middle of a period, he paused,
and his glance, usually mild enough and even stupid,
became withering.

END OE THE' CROWN CHANGED, BTC,

131

Gentlemen/’ he exclaimed (but in French, for this was
not set down in his mamiscript), ^SSatan plays so large
a part in this affair, that yonder he stands, listening
to our discussions and making a mock of their majesty.
Behold!”

As he spoke, he pointed to the little goat, which, seeing
Charmoliie gesticulate, sincerely thought that it was but
right for her to do the same, and sitting up on lier
haunches, was imitating to the best of her ability, with
her fore-feet and her bearded head, the pathetic panto-
mime of the king’s proxy. This was, it may be remem-
bered, one of her best tricks. This incident — this final
proof — produced a great effect. The goat’s feet were tied
together, and the king’s proxy resumed the thread of his
eloquence.

His speech was very long, but the peroration was
admirable. We give the concluding phrase ; the reader
may imagine Master Charmolue’s hoarse voice and frantic
gestures : —

IcUo, Doimvi, cormn stryga demonstraia, crimme patentc,
mtentioRc cri minis cxistentc, in Qiomine sanctce mdesice
jS'osfxcv-Domiuce Parisiensis, 'qtim est in saisina habendi
Omni madam aliam et hassam justitiain m ilia haa intern-
emta Givitatis insula, t&noTo lyrmseniium dedaramm ms
rcquircre, immo, aliqim^hdam peGtmiwriam indemnitatmn ;
semndo, amendationem honarahiUm ante portalmm maxi-
mum NostrayBominm, ecclesim catliedredis; tertio, senten-
Ham in vlrtnde cujus ista stryga cmn ma- cxipella, sen in
trivia v ulgariter dicta the Grbye, seu m instda exeimte in jin-
via Secance,juMa pointam jardmi regalis, cxemtaka smi P*

132 NOTBE-BAME.

He put on liis cap and sat down.

Elim ! ” said the agonized Gringoire ; iassa Icitinitas ! ”

Another man in a black gown, near the prisoner, rose.
This was her lawyer. The judges, being hungry, began to
niunnur.

'' Be brief, sir lawyer,’' said the president.

''Mr, President," replied the lawyer, "the defendant
having confessed her crime, I have but a few words
to say to the bench. It is laid down in the Salic law
that ‘If a witch have devoured a man, and she be
convicted of the crime, she shall pay a fine of eight
thousand farthings, which make two hundred pence in
gold.’ May it please the court to sentence my client to
pay this

" That law is obsolete," said the king’s proxy,

" NegOy’ replied the lawyer.

"Put it to the vote !" said a councillor; "the crime is
clear, and it is late."

The question was put to the vote without leaving the
hall. The judges nodded asvsent; they were in haste.
Their hooded heads were uncovered one after the other
in the darkness, in response to the fatal question put to
them in a low tone by the president. The poor prisoner
seemed to be looking at them, but her dim eyes saw
nothing.

The clerk began to write ; then he handed the president
a lengthy parchment.

The unhappy girl heard a stir among the people, the
pikes clashed, and an icy voice said : —

" Gypsy girl, upon such day as it shall please the lord

END OF THE CEOWN CHANGED, ETC. 133

our king, at the hour of noon, you shall be taken in a
tumbril, in your shift, barefoot, a rope around your neck,
to the square before the great door of Notre-Dame, and
shall there do proper penance, with a wax candle of the
weight of two pounds in your hand ; and thence you shall
be taken to the Grbve, where you shall be hanged and
strangled on the city gibbet ; and likewise this your goat ;
and you shall pay to the judges of the Bishop's Court three
golden lions, in atonement for the crimes by you com-
mitted and by you confessed, of sorcery, magic, incon-
tinence, and murder, upon the person of Lord Phoebus
de Ch§-teaupers ! And may God have mercy on your
soul!'’

'' Oh, it is a dream* ! ” she murmured ; and she felt
rude hands bear her away.

LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA.

LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA,

135

the earth. The cellars of an edifice formed another edi-
fice, into which one descended instead of ascending, and
w^hose subterranean stories were evolved below the pile
of upper stories of the monument, like those forests and
mountains seen reversed in the mirroring water of a lake
beneath the forests and niounta.ms on its shore.

In the Bastille Saint-Aiitoine, the Palace of Justice at
Paris, and the Louvre, these uiidergroinid stnictiires were
prisons. The various stories of these prisons as they sank
deeper into the ground became darker and more con-
tracted. They formed so many zones presenting various
degrees of horror. Dante could have found no better
image of his hell. These tunnel-like dungeons usually
ended in a deep hole like a tub, such as Dante chose
for the abode of Satan, and where society placed those
condemned to death. When once any poor wretch was
buried there, he bade farewell to light, air, life, all hope ;
he never left it save for the gallows or the stake. Some-
times he lay there and rotted. Human justice styled this
"'.forgetting.’' Between mankind and Inmself the prisoner
felt that a mountain of stones and jailers weighed him.
down ; and tlie entire prison, the massive fortress, became
but a huge complicated lock which shut him off fropi the
living world.

It was in a dungeon-hole of this kind, in one of the
oubliettes dug by Saint Louis, the in pace ^ of tlie Tour-
nelle, that Esmeralda was placed when condemned to the
gallows, doubtless lest she should try to escape, with the
colossal Palace of Justice above her head. Poor fiy, wdiich

1 Prison in whicii monks were shut up for life. ™ Tk.

136

NOTRE-DAME.

could not have stirred the smallest one of the unhewn
stones 1

Certainly Providence and mankind were equally unjust.
Such a lavish display of misery and torment was needless
to crush so frail a creature.

There she lay, lost in the darkness, buried, entombed,
immured. Whoever had seen her in that state, after Iiav-
ing seen her laugh and dance in the sunshine, must have
shivered. Cold as night, cold as death, not a breath of air
to flutter her hair, not a human sound in her ear, not a
ray of daylight in her eyes, hent double, crushed beneath
her chains, crouching beside a jug and a loaf of bread,
upon a little straw, in the pool of water formed beneath
her by the damp oozing of her cell, motionless, nearly
breathless, she was almost beyond all sense of suffering.
Pha3bus, the sun, high noon, the fresh air, the streets of
Paris, her dancing always hailed with apiflause, the sweet
prattle of love with the officer; then the priest, the old
hag, the dagger, the blood, the torture, and the gallows, —
all these things had hovered before her, now like a gay
and golden vision, now like a monstrous nightmare ; but
they were now nought but a vague and horrible struggle
lost iu the darkness, or like distant music played above, on
the earth, and no longer heard in the depths to which the
wretched girl had fallen.

Since she had been there she had neither waked nor
slex>t. In her misery, in her dungeon, she could no more
distinguish waking from sleeping, a ylream from reality,
than she could day from night. All was mingled, broken,
vague, floating confusedly before her mind. She felt

LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA. 137

nothing, knew nothing, thought nothing ; at best, she
only dreamed. Never did living creature pierce so far
into the realm of nothingness.

Thus benumbed, frozen, petrified, she liad scarcely noted
the sound^of a trap-door which was twice or thrice opened
somewhere above her without even admitting a ray of
light, and through which a hand had thrown a crust of
black bread. And yet this was her only remaining means
of communication with men, — the periodical visit of the
jailer.

One thing only still mechanically caught her ear: over
her head the dampness filtered througli the mouldy stones
of the roof, and at regular intervals a drop of water fell.
She listened stupidly to the noise made by this drop of
water as it dripped into the pool beside her.

This drop of water falling into the pool was the only
movement still stirring around her, the only clock which
marked the time, the only sound of all the noises made
upon the surface of the earth which reached her.

To be exact, she did also feel from time to time, in
this sink of mire and gloom, something cold crawling
hitlier and thither over her foot or her arm, and she
shuddered.

How long had she been there? She did not know.
She remembered a death sentence pronounced somewhere,
against some one; then she was borne away, and she
waked icy cold, in the midst of night and silence. She
had dragged herself about on her hands and knees; then
iron rings Iiad cut her ankle, and chains had clanked. She
discovered that there was a'wall all about her, that there

VoS KGTEE-DAME.

was a tiled floor under heiv coyerecl with and a

bundle of straw; but neither lamp nor ventilator. Tiien
she seated herself upon the straw, and occasionally, ibr a
change of position, on the last step of some stone stairs
in her cell.

At one time she tried to count the dark moments meas-
ured for her by tlie drop of water; but soon this sad task
of a diseased brain ceased of its own accord, and left licr
in a stupor.

At last, one day, or one night, — for midnight and noon
wore the same hue in this tomb, — she heard above her a
noise louder than that usually made by the turnkey when
he brought her bread and water. She raised her head,
and saw a reddish ray coming through the ci^acks in the
sort of trap-door made in the roof of the ''inpcicc^

At the same time the heavy iron creaked, the traj)-door
grated on its rusty hinges, turned, and she saw a lantern,
a hand, and the lower part of the bodies of two men, tlie
door being too low for her to see their heads. , Tlie light
hurt her so cruelly that she shut her eyes.

When she reopened them, the door was again closed,
the lantern was placed on a step of the staircase, a man
alone stood before her. A black gown fell to his feet;
a cowl of the same color hid his face. ISTo thing of his
person was visible, neither his face nor his hands. He
looked like a long black winding-sheet standing bolt up-
right, under which something seemed to move. She gazed
fixedly for some moments at this spectre. Still, neither
she nor he spoke* , They seemed two statues confronting
each other. Two things only s^med to live in the cave, —

1 tlie dampness
^om the ceiliuGf,

which interrupted this irregular crackle with its rnoiiot^^
lions plash, and made the light of the lantern cpiivor in
concentric rings upon the oily water of the pool.

At last the prisoner broke the silence, — •

“ Who are you ?

'' A priest/'

The word, the accent, the sound of his voice, made her
tremble.

The priest added in a hollow tone, —

“ Are you prepared ?

^^For what?''

“ To die/’

'' Oh, said she, will it be soon ? ”

To-morrow.”

Her head, wdiich she had lifted with joy, again sank
upon her breast.

That is a very long time yet ! ” she murmured ; wliy
did they not make it to-day ? ”

'' Then you are very unhapj)y ? ” asked the priest, after
a pause.

I am very cold,” replied she.

She took her feet in her hands, — a common gesture
with those wretched people who suffer iTom cold, and
which we have already observed in the recluse of the
Tour-Eoland, — and her teeth chattered/

The priest seemed to cast his eyes about the cell, from
beneath his hood.

''Fro light I no fire ! in the water ! It is horrible ! ”

'tYes/' she answered, with the look of surprise which
misfortune had imprinted on her face. “ Daylight is for

LASCIATB OGNI SPERAN^A.

every one. Why is it that they give me nothing but
night?”

Do you know,” resumed the priest, after a fresh pause,
“why you are here?”

“ I think I did know once,” said she, passing her thin
fingers over her brow as if to help her memory, “ but I
don't know now.”

All at once she began to cry like a little child.

“I want to get out, sir. I am cold, I am frightened,
and there are creatures which crawl all over me.”

“Well, follow me.”

So saying, the priest took her by the arm. The unfor-
tunate creature was frozen to the marrow; but still that
hand gave her a sensation of cold.

“ Oh, ” she murmured, it is the icy hand of death.
Who are you ? ”

The priest threw back his hood ; she looked. It was that
evil face which had so long haunted her ; that demon head
which had appeared to her at the house of old Falourdel
above the adored head of her Phoebus; that eye which
she had last seen sparkle beside a dagger.

This apparition, always so fatal to her, and whicii had
thus urged her on from misfortune to misfortune and
even to torture, roused her from her torpor. The veil
which had clouded her memory seemed rent in twain.
Every detail of her mournful adventure, from the night
scene at the house of Falourdel down to her condemna-
tion at the Tournelle, rushed upon her mind at once, not
vague and confused as heretofore, but clear, distinct, vivid,
living, terrible. The sombre figure before her recalled

■ 142 ;

NOTRE-DAME.

those half-efih,ced memories almost blotted out by excess
of suffering, as the heat of the fire brings back in all tlieir
freshness invisible letters traced on white paper with
sympathetic ink. She felt as if every wound in her
heart were torn open and bled together.

''Ha!'' she cried, pressing her hands to her eyes with a
convulsive shudder, "it is the priest I”

Then her arms fell listlessly at her side, and she sat
with downcast head and eyes, mute and trembling.

The priest gazed at her with the eye of a kite which has
long hovered high in the heavens above a poor meadow-lark
crouching in the wheat, gradually and silently descending-
in ever lessening circles, and, suddenly swooping upon his
prey like a flash of lightning, grasps it panting in his
clutch.

She murmured feebly, —

Do your work ! do your work 1 strike the last blow ! "
and her head sank between her shoulders in terror^ like
that of a lamb awaiting the butcher's axe.

" You look upon me with horror, then ? " he asked at
length. .

She made no answer.

" Do you look on me with horror ? ” he repeated.

Her lips moved as if she smiled.

"Yes," said she, "the executioner jests with the pris-
oner. For months he has pursued me, threatened me, ter-
rified me! But for him, my God, how liappy 1 sliould
have been ! It is he who hurled me into this gulf of
woe I Oh, heavens ! it is he who killed, — it is he who
killed Mm, my Phoebus I

LASCIATE OGNl SPERANZA,

143

Here, bursting into sobs and raising Iier eyes to the
priest, she cried, —

Oh, wretch 1 who are you ? What have I done to
you ? Do you hate me so much ? Alas 1 what have you
against me ? ''

'' I love you 1 ” exclaimed the priest.

Her tears ceased suddenly ; she stared vacantly at him.
He had fallen upon his knees, and devoured lier face with
eyes of flame.

'' Do you hear ? I love you 1 ” he again exclaimed.

'' What love 1 ” said the miserable girl, shuddering.

He replied, —

“ The love of a damned man.”

Both were silent for some moments, oppressed by the
intensity of their emotions, — he mad, she stunned.

''Listen,” said the priest at last, and a strange calm
seemed to have taken possession of him. “ You shall
know all. I will tell you that which as yet I have hardly
ventured to confess to myself, when I secretly questioned
my own soul in those dead hours of the night when the
darkness is so profound that it seems as if even God could
no longer see us. Listen. Before I met you, girl, I was
happy.”

" And I ! ” she faintly sighed.

'' Do not interrupt me ! Yes, I was happy, — at least I
thought so. I was pure ; my soul was filled with limpid
light. No liead was held higher or happier tlian mine.
Priests consulted me on chastity, doctors on doctrines.
Yes, science was all in all to me ; it was a sister, and a
sister was all I asked. Not but that, as I grew older, other

144

NOTBE-t)AM.fi.

ideas came to me. More than once my flesh thrilled as a
woman’s form passed by. That force of sex and passion
which, although in the pride of youth, I had imagined I
had stifled forever, more than once has rebelled against
the chain of the iron vows which bind me — wretch that I
arn 1 — to the cold stones of the altar. But fasting, prayer,
study, and monastic mortifications again made my spirit
ruler of my body. And then I shunned women. I had
only to open a book, and all the impure vapors of my brain
were banished by the glorious sunbeams of science. In a
few moments I felt the gross things of earth fly far away,
and I was once more calm and serene, bathed in the tran-
quil light of eternal truth. So long as the demon sent only
vague shadows to attack me, passing singly before me, in
church, in the streets or in the fields, and scarcely recur-
ring in my dreams, I conquered him easily. Alas I if the
victory he not still mine, God is to blame, -who failed to
make man and the Devil of equal strength. Listen ! One
day — "

Here the priest paused, and the prisoner heard him
utter agoniising sighs.

He continued ; —

''One day I was leaning from the wdndow of my
cell. What book was I reading ? Ob, all tliat is con-
fused and vague to me now. I had been reading. The
window looked upon a public square. I heard the sound
of tambourine and music. Vexed at being tliiis disturbed
in my reverie, I looked out. What T saw was seen by
many others as well, and yet it was not a spectacle for
mere mortal eyes. There, in the middle of the pavement,

LASGIATE 'OGm \SFERANZA. 145

— it was iiooiR the sun shone briglitly, — a creature was
daucing, — a creature so beautiful that God would have
preferred her to the Virgin, and chosen her to be His
uiotlier, and would have wished to be born of her, had she
existed when He was made man 1 Her eyes were black and
lustrous; amidst her black hair certain locks shone in the
sun like threads of gold. Her feet moved so swiftly that
they faded from sight like the spokes of a wheel revolving
rapidly. About her head, in her black braids, there were
nietaliic plates which glittered in the sun and made a
crown of stars above lier brow. Her gown, sprinkled with
spangles, scintillated, blue, and sown with a thousand
sparks like a summer night. Her i)liant brown arms
waved and twined about her waist like two scarfs. Her
figure was of surpassing beauty. Oh, how resplendent was
that form which stood out like sometliing luminous even
in the very light of the sun itself I Alas 1 girl, it was you.
Surprised, intoxicated, charmed, I suffered myself to gaze.

I gazed so long that, all at once, I shuddered with terror.

I felt that Fate had overtaken me.”

The priest, oppressed, again paused a moment. Then '
lie resinned : —

'‘Already half fascinated I tried to lay hold of some-
thing and to stay myself from falling. I recalled the
traps which Satan had already laid for me. The creature
before me possessed that supeikuman beauty which could
only proceed from heaven or from hell. That Avas no
mere girl made of common clay, and dimly illumined
within by the flickering rays of a woman’s soul. It was
an angel, — but of darkness, of flame, and not of light I

]4G

NOl^RE-^DAMifi.

'Must as I was thinking thus, I saw close beside you a,
goat, a devilish beast, which looked at me and laughed.
The midday sun made its horns seem tipped wutli fire.
Then I recognized the snare of the demon, and no longer
doubted that you came from hell, and that you came ibi*
my perdition. I believed it.”

Here the priest looked in the prisoner’s iace, and added
coldly : —

'' I believe so still. However, the charm worked little
by little. Your dance went round and round in my
brain; I felt the mysterious spell acting w’itbin me. All
which should have waked slumbered in my soul, and, like
men perishing in the snow, I found pleasure in the
approach of tin's slumber. All at once you began to
sing. What could I do, miserable man ? Your sing-
ing was even more enchanting than your dancing. I
strove to escape. Impossible. I was nailed, I was rooted
to the spot. It seemed as if the marble of the floor had
risen to my knees. I was forced to stay to tlie end. My
feet were ice, my head burned. At last, — peihaps you
])itied me, — you ceased to sing; you disappeared. The
reflection of the dazzling vision, the echo of tlm enchant-
ing music gradually laded from my eyes and ears. Then 1
sank into the corner of the window, stiffer and more hel|H
less than a fallen statue. The vesper bell aroused me.
I rose to my feet; I fled; but, alas! something witbin
me had fallen which could never be raised up ; sometbing
had overtaken me which I could not escape.”

He paused once more, and then went on: —

''Yes, from that day, forth there was anotlier man

LASCIATE OGNI SPEEANZA.

147

witliiii me, whom I did not know. I strove to apply all
my remedies, — the cloister, the altar, work, books. Fol-
lies, all 1 Oh, how empty^ science seems when we beat
against it in despair a head filled with frantic passion !
Girl, do you know what T always saw betvveen my book
and me ? You, your shadow, the image of the bright
vision which had once passed before me. But that image
was no longer of the same color ; it was .gloomy, funereal,
sombre as the black circle which long haunts the sight of
the imprudent man*who looks steadily at the sun.

'' Unable to rid myself of it, forever hearing your song
ring in my ears, forever seeing your feet dance over my
breviary, forever feeling at night, in dreams, your form
against mine, I longed to see you once more, to touch you,
to know who you were, to see if you were indeed like
the ideal image whicli I had formed of you, — to de-
stroy perhaps my dream by confronting it with the reality.
In any case, I hoped that a fresh impression might dispel
the first, and the first had become unendurable. I sought
you out ; I saw you again. Misery ! Having seen you
twice, I longed to see you a thousand times, — I longed
to see you forever. Then, — how may a man stop sliort
upon that steep descent to hell ? — then I ceased to be
my own master. The other end of the cord which the
demon had fastened to my , wings was tied to Ins own foot
I became a wanderer and a vagrant like you. I waited for
you beneath porches, I lurked at street corners, I watched
you from the top of my tower. Every night I found iny-
seif more charmed, more desperate, more bewitched, nearer
perdition 1

148

HOTEE-DAMB.

I had learned who yon were, — a gypsy. How could I
doubt your magic powers ? I hoped that a criminal suit
would set me free from your spell. A sorceress once en-
chanted Bruno d’Ast ; he had her burned alive, and was
cured. I knew it. I decided to try this remedy. I at
first attempted to have you forbidden all access to the
square in front of ISrotre-Dame, hoping that I might forget
you if you no longer came thither. Yon paid no lieed to
the prohibition : you returned. Then I thought of carrying
you off. One night, I tried to do so. There were two of
us. We already had you in our grasp, when that miser-
able officer appeared. He rescued you. He thus began
your misfortune, mine, and his own. Finally, not knowing
what to do or what would become of me, I denounced
you to the judges.

'' I thought that I should be cured, like Bruno d’Ast. I
also vaguely thought that a criminal trial would make you
mine ; that in a prison I should have you, should be able
to hold you mine ; that there you could not escape me ;
that you had possessed me so long that I might w^ell
possess you in my turn. When a man does wrong, he
should do all the wrong he can ; it is madness to stop
half-way in crime 1 The extremity of guilt has its rap-
tures of joy. A priest and a witch can mingle in delight
upon the scanty straw of a cell !

''Accordingly I denounced you. It w^as then that
I terrified you when we met. The plot which I was
contriving against you, the storm which I was about
to bring upon your head, burst from me in tlireats
and in lightning flashes. And yet I still hesitated.

LASCIATE OGm SPERANZA.

149

My scheme had terrible sides which made me
shrink.

“ Perhaps I might have given it up ; perhaps my odious
thought might have withered in my brain, without bear-
ing fruit. I thought that it would always be in my
power to continue or to stay the prosecution ; but every
evil thought is inexorable, and insists upon becoming a
deed. AVhere I supposed myself all-powerful, Fate was
mightier than I. Alas, alas ! it is she which captured
you and delivered you over, to tlie terrible wheels of the
machine which I secretly constructed ! Listen. I am
near the end.

'' One day — again the sun shone bright and warm — I
saw a man pass who pronounced your name and laughed,
and whose eyes were full of passion. Damnation ! I fol-
lowed him. You know the rest.”

He ceased.

The young girl could only utter the words, —

Oh, my Phoebus 1”

Not that name ! ” said the priest, seizing her angrily
by the arm. Do not utter that name ! Oh, unhappy
wretches that we are ! it was that name which ruined us 1
or rather we have ruined each other by the inexjdicable
caprice of Fate I You suffer, do you not ? You are cold,
the darkness blinds you, the dungeon wraps you round ;
but perhaps you have still some ray of light in your
innermost soul, were it but your childish love for that
empty man who played with your heart, while I have
a dungeon within me ; within me all is winter, ice, de-
spair ; my soul is full of darkness.

150

KOTRE-DAME.

'' Do you know all that I have suffered ? I was present,
at your trial. I sat upon the bench with the judges. Yes,
beneath one of priests' cowls were the contortions

the damned. When you were brought in, I was there ;
vdien you w^'ere cross-questioned, I was there. The den
of wolves ! It was my crime, it was my gibbet widcli
I saw slowly rise above your head. At each witness,
each proof, each plea, I was there ; I counted your
every step on the road of agony ; I was there again
wlien that savage beast — Oh, I did not ibresee the
torture ! Listen. I followed you to the torture- chamber.
I saw you stripped, and handled half naked by the in-
famous hands of the executioner. I saw your foot, — that
foot upon which I would have given an empire to press
a single kiss and die; that foot by which I would with
rapture have been crushed, — I saw it enclosed in the
horrid buskin which converts the limbs of a living crea-
ture into bleeding pulp. Oh, wretched me 1 As I saw
these things, I grasped beneath my sackcloth a dagger,
with which I slashed my breast. At the sliriek wlvieh
you uttered, I plunged it deep into my flesli ; had you
shrieked again, it would have pierced my heart. Look. I
think it still bleeds.” .

He opened his cassock. His breast was indeed torn as
if by a tiger's claw, and upon his side was a large, open
wound.

The prisoner shrank from him in horror.

''Oh," said the priest, '"have pity on me, girl! You
think yourself unhappy. Alas!, alasl You do not know
the meaning of misery. Oh, to love a woman! to be a

LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA.

151

priest I to be abhorred ! to love her with all the strength
of your soul; to feel that you would give your blood,
your life, your reputation, your salvation, immortality and
eternity, this life and the next, for the least of her smiles ;
to regret that you are not a king, a genius, an emperor, an
archangel, a god, to place at her feet a grander slave ; to
clasp her in your arms night and day, in your dreams and in
your thoughts ; and then to see her enamoured of a soldier’s
unifonri, and to have nothing to offer lier but a priest’s
dirty gown, which would terrify aud disgust lier; to be
present with your jealousy and your rage while she lav-
ishes upon a miserable idiotic braggart the treasures of her
love and beauty ! To see that body whose form inflames
you, that bosom which has so much sweetness, that flesh
tremble and blush under the kisses of anotlier! Oh,
Heaven 1 to love her foot, her arm, hev shoulder ; to think
of her blue veius, of her brown skin, until one has writhed
whole nights on the floor of one’s cell, and to see all the
caresses which you have dreamed of bestowing upon her
end on the rack; to have succeeded only in stretching her
upon the leather bed, — oh, these are indeed tongs heated
red-hot in the fires of hell 1 Oh, happy is he who is sawn
asunder between two planks, or torn in quarters by four
horses ! Do you know what agony he feels through long
nights, whose arteries boil, whose heart seems bursting,
whose head seems splitting, whose teeth tear his hands,
— remorseless tormentors which turn him incessantly,
as on a fiery gridiron, over a thought of love, jealousy,
and despair 1 Mercy, girl ! One moment’s truce I Oast
a handful of ashes upon the coals ! Wipe away, I con-

' s- .

NOTRE-DAME.

jure you, tlie big drops of sweat tliat trickle from my brow :
Child, torture me with one hand, but caress me with the
other ! Have pity, maiden, — have pity upon me ! ”

The priest wallowed in the water whicli lay on the

LASCIATE OGNI SPEEANZA.

153

floor, and beat his liead against the edges of the stone
stairs. The girl listened to him, looked at hini.

Wlien lie ceased speaking, panting and exhausted, she
repeated in a low tone, —

'' Oil, my Phoebus ! ”

The priest dragged himself towards her on his knees,
entreat, you,” he cried ; ^‘if you have any ieeliiig, do
not repulse me I Oh, I love you ! I am a miserable
wretch 1 When you utter that name, unhappy girl, it is
as if you ground the very fibres of my heart between
your teeth 1 Have mercy ! If you come from hell, I
will go there with you» I have done everything to that
end. The hell where you are will be Paradise to me;
the sight of you is more blissful than that of God!
Oh, speak 1 Will you not accept me ? I should have
thought that on the day when a woman could repel such
love the very mountains themselves would move! Oh,
if you would but consent ! Oh, how happy we might be 1
We would fly, — I would help you to escape. We would
go somewhere; we would seek out that spot of earth
where there was most sunshine, nio>st trees, most Hue
sky. We would love each other; we would pour our
two souls one into %he other, and we would thirst
inextinguishably each for the other, cpienching our
thirst forever and together at the inexhaustible cup
of love.”

She interrupted him with a loud burst of terrible
laughter.

^G3nly, look, father! There is blood up^m your
nails!”

154

NOTRE-DAME.

The priest for some momeuts stood petrified, his eyas
fixed on his hands.

'' All, yes ! he replied at lengtli, with strange gentle-
ness; 'insult me, mock me, overwhelm me! J3ut come,
come. We must hasten. To-morrow is the day, I tell
you. The gallows in the Greve, you know ? It is es'or
ready. It is horrible, — to see you borne in tliat tumbril !
Oh, have mercy I I never felt before how much I loved
you. Oh, ibllow me ! You shall take your time to love
me after I have saved you. You shall hate mo, too, as
long as you will. But come. To-morrow 1 to-morrow ! the
gallows! your execution 1 Olg save yourself 1 spare me!”

He seized her by the arm ; he was frantic ; he strove
to drag her away.

She fixed her eyes steadily upon him.

What has become of my Phoebus ?

All 1 said the priest, releasing her arm, “ you are
pitiless 1”

'' What has become of Phcebus ? ” she repeated coldly.

'' He is dead ! ” cried the priest.

Dead ! ” said she, still motionless and icy ; tlien wliy
do you talk to me of living ? ”

He did not listen to her.

Oh, yes,” said he, as if speaking to himself, he must
indeed be dead. The blade entered very deeply. I think
I touched his heart with the point. Oh, my very life hung
upon that dagger 1 ”

The young girl threw herself upon him like an angry
tigress, and pushed him towards the stairs witli super-
natuiul strength.

LASCIATB OGNI SPERANZA. ; 155

‘'Begone, monster! begone, assassin! Leave me to die !
May the blood of both of ns forever stain yonr brow !
Be yours, priest? Kever! never! Nothing shall ever
unite us, — not even hell ! Go, accursed man ! never ! ”

The priest had stumbled to the stairs. He silently
freed his feet from the folds of his cassock, took up his
lantern, and slowly ascended the steps leading to the door.
He reopened the door and went out.

All at once the young girl saw his head reappear; his
face wore a frightful expression, and he cried to her with
a gasp of rage and despair, —

“ I tell you he is dead !

She fell face downwards on the ground, and no sound
was heard in the dungeon save the sighing of the drop
of water which rippled the water in the darkness.

V.

THE MOTHER.

I DO not think that there i.g anything in the world moi’e
delightful than the ideas aroused in a 3nother’.s lieart
by the sight of her child’s little shoe, especially if it be
a best shoe, a Sunday shoe, a christening shoe, a shoe
embroidered down to the very sole, a shoe in which the
cldld has never yet taken a step. That shoe is so dainty,
so tin}”-, it is so impos.sible for it to walk, that it i.s to the
mother as if she saw her child itself. She smiles at it,
kisses it, talks to it ; she asks it if there can really be so
small a foot; and if the child be absent, tlie ])r(jtty shoe if,
quite enough to bring the sweet and IVagile creature l.tefore
her eyes. She fancies she sees it ; she does see it, from

THE MOTHER.

157

head to foot, full of life and laughter, with its delicato
hands, its round head, its pure lips, its chiar eyes, \vliose
very white is blue. If it be winteivit is there ; it crawls,
over the carpet; it laboriously climbs upon a stool, and
the inotlier trembles lest it go too near tlie fire. If it be
summer, it creeps about the courtyard or the garden, pulls
up the grass which grows between the paving-stones,
gazes innocently and fearlessly at the big dogs and liorses,
plays with shells and flowers, and makes tlie gardener
scold when he finds sand on his borders and. dirt in his
paths. All is bright and gay ; all is mirth around it
like itself, even to the breeze and the sunbeam, wd,iich vie
with each other iu sporting among the light curls of its
hair. The shoe shows the mother all this, and makes her
heart melt within her like wax before the fire.

ihit if she has lost her child, these thousand images of
bliss, delight, and love which hover around the little
shoo become so many horrid visions. The pretty em-
broiilcred shoe ceases to be aught but an instrument of
torture, forever rending the mother’s heart. The some
fibre still vibrates, — the deepest and most sensitive fibre;
but instead of being caressed by an angel, it is wrenclied
by a del non,

uioniing, as the May sun was rising iu a deep-blue
sky, siudi as (.larofolo loved to use for the Ijackgrouiid of
liis Descents from the Gross,” the recluse of the Tour-
Uolaiul licard the noise of wheels, horses’ hoofs, and the
(dink of in the Grieve* She paid but little heed to
it, |>ulled lier liair over her eans to drown it, and again
fell to gazing, on her knees, at tlie inanimate object

158 NOTRE-DAME.

whicli she had thus adored for fifteen years. This
little shoe, as we have already said, was the entire uni-
verse to her. Her every thought was bound up iii it,
never to be parted until death. The gloomy cavern of
the Tour-Eolaiid alone knew how many bitter curses,
how many touching lamentations, prayers, and sobs, she
had addressed to Heaven on behalf of tliat dainty pink
satin toy. Never was greater despair lavished on a pret-
tier, more graceful object.

On this particular morning it seemed as if her grief
burst forth with even greater violence than usual ; and
those who passed by outside, heard her wailing in a loud
monotonous tone which pierced their very hearts.

Oh, my daughter,” she moaned, '' my daughter ! My
poor, dear little child, I shall never see you again, then !
It is all over ! It always seems to me as if it were but
yesterday that it happened ! My God, my God, it would
have been better never to give her to me, if you meant to
snatch her from me so soon ! Perhaps you did not know
that our children are a part of ourselves, and tluit a motlier
who loses her child can no longer believe in God! Ah,
wretch that I was, to go out that day 1 Lord 1 Lord 1 tr;
take her from me thus, you could never have seen me with
lier when I warmed her, all rapture, at my fire ; when she
laughed at my breast; when I helped her little feet to
climb up my bosom to my lips 1 Oh, if you had seen all
this, my God, you would have had pity on my joy ; you
would not have robbed me of the only love left in my
heart! Was I, then, so miserable a creature, Lord, tlait
you could not look upon me before you condemned me ?

THE MOTHER,

159

Alas 1 alas ! here is the shoe, but where is the foot ; where
is the rest ; where is the child ? My daughter, my daugh-
ter 1 what have they done with you ? Lord, restore her to
me ! My knees have been bruised for fifteen years in pray-
ing to you, my God ! Will not that suffice ? Eestore her to
me for a day, an hour, a single instant, — one iiistaut only,
Lord! — and then cast me to the Devil for all eternity!
Oh, if I did but know where to find the skirts of your
garment, I would cling to them with both hands until
you gave me back my child I Have you no mercy, when
you*see her pretty little shoe, Lord ? Can you condemn
a poor mother to fifteen years of torment ? Kind Yirgin,
gracious Lady of Heaven! they have taken away my
child-Jesus; they have stolen her; they devoured her
flesh ijpon the heath, they drank her blood, they gnawed
her hones ! Gracious Virgin, have pity upon me ! My
daughter! I must have my daughter! What do I care
if she is in Paradise ? I doif t want an angel ; I want my
child. I am a lioness, roaring for my whelp. Oh, I will
writlie upon the ground, I will beat my forehead against
the stones, and I will he forever damned, and I will curse
you, L(jrd, if you keep my cliild from me 1 You see that
my arms are all bitten and torn, Lord ! Has tlie good
(iod no compassion ? Oh, give me nothing but salt and
black bread, but give me back my daughter, and she
will w'anri me like the sun ! Alas 1 God, my Lord, I
am but a vile sinner; but iny daughter made me pious.

I was full of religion from love of her ; and I saw you
through her smile as through an opening in the heavens.
Oh, if I could only once, once more, just once more, put

160

NOTEE-DAME.

this shoe on her pretty little rosy foot, T would die, kind
Virgin, blessing you! Ah! 'twas hfteen yeans ago. She
would be almost a woman now ! Unhappy child 1 What !
then it is indeed true I shall never see her again, not
even in heaven, for I shall never go there ! Oh, what
misery! to think that there is her shoe, and that is all
I have left rV

The unhappy woman had Hung lierself upon the shoe,
for so many years her consolation and her despair, au<l
she burst into heart-rending sobs as if it were tlie very
day it happened ; for to a mother who lias lost her diild,
her loss is ever present. Such grief as that never grows
old. The garments of mourning may rust and wear out !
the heart remains forever darkened.

At this instant the fresh, gay voices of a band ol‘
children were heard outside, passing the cell. Every time
that a child met her eye or ear, the poor mother ruslied
into the blackest corner of her tomb, and seemed trying
to bury her head in the stone 'walls, that she might not
hear or see them. But to-day, on the contrary, slie sprang
up hastily, and listened eagerly. One of the little boys
said, —

‘"They are going to hang a gypsy girl to-day.”

With the sudden leap of that spider whicli wo saw rush
upon a fly when her web quivered, slie ran to lier window,
which looked, as the reader knows, upon tlie Grbve. A
ladder was indeed erected close to the permanent gTillows,
and the hangman’s assistant was arranging the chains
rusted by the rain. A number of people stood about
watching him.

THE MOTHEK.

161

The laughing group of children had already vanished.
The nun looked about for some passer-by, whom she iiiigiit
question. She noticed, close by her cell, a priest, who
feigned to be reading the public breviary, but who was far
less occupied with the '^letters latticed with iron” than
witli the gibbet, towards which he cast repeated wild and
gloomy glances. She recognized him as the archdeacon of
Josas, a holy man.

'"Father,”* she asked, " who is to be hanged yonder ? ”

The priest stared at her, and made no answer; she
repeated her question. Then he said, —

"I do not know.'’

" The children said that it was a gypsy girl,” continued
the recluse.

" I believe it is,” said the priest.

Then Paquette la Ohantefleurie burst into a hyena-
like laugh.

" Sister,” said the archdeacon, " do you hate the gypsies
so intensely ? "

"Do I hate them!” cried the recluse; "they are
witches, clnld-stealers ! They devoured my little girl,
my child, my only child ! I have no heart now ; they
ate it 1 ”

She was frightful to look upon. The priest gazed coldly
at her.

"There is one whom I hate particularly, and whom I
have cursed,” she added ; " she is young, about the age
that my daughter would have been if her mother had not
eaten my girl. Every time that young viper passes my
cell, my blood boils 1”

162 . HOTKE--I>AME. '

' : IVWell.,' th said' the .priestj as 'cold as

the statu(3 on a inonumeiit; “it is that same girl whose
death you are about to witness.”

His head fell upon his breast, and he moved slowly
away. . . . . .. ,

Tlie recluse wrung her hands with joy.

“ I told her she would mount those steps I Thanks, m
priest!’" she cried.

And she began to stride up and down behind her barred
window, A\dth dishevelled hair and iianiing eyes, striking
her shoulder against the wall as she moved, u-ith tlie
savage air of a caged wolf wliicJi lias long gone hungry,
and knows that feeding-time is at hand.

TEHEE MEN^S HEARTS DIFFERENTLY CONSTITUTED.

P IKE BUS, however, was not dead. Afen of his kind
are hard to kill. When Master Philippe Lheulier,
advocate extraordinary to the king, said to poor Esmeralda,
He is dying,” he was either mistaken or joking. When

164

NOTRE-DAME.

the archdeacon, in pronouncing her sentence, repeated,
'' He is dead,’’ the fact was that he knew nothing whatever
about it, but that he supposed so, he reckoned iipoii it, had
no doubt of it, sincerely hoped it was so. It would have
been too much to expect of him, that he should cany
good news of his rival to the woman he loved. Any inan
would luive done the same in his place.

Not that Phabus’ wound Avas not sevei'5, but it was less
so than the archdeacon flattered himself. The surgeon,
to whose house the soldiers of the watch had at once
carried him, had for a week feared for his life, and even
told him so in I.ntin. However, youth triumphed; (ind,
as frequently happeiivS, prognosis and diagnosis to the con-
trary, Nature amused herself by saving tlie patient in spite
of the doctor. It was while he still lay upon the sur-
geon’s truckle-bed that he underwent the first examination
from Philippe Lheulier and the hoard of inquiry from the
Bishop’s Court, which annoyed him exceedingly. Accord-
ingly, one fine morning, feeling better, he left his golden
spurs in payment of the doctor, and slipped away. This
circumstance, moreover, did not at all disturb the legal
proceedings. Justice in those days cared little for preci-
sion and accuracy in a criminal suit Provided the prisoner
were hanged, that .was all that was necessary. Now, the
judges had proof enough against Esmeralda. They be-
lieved Phoebus to be dead, and that was the end of the
matter.

Phoebus, for his part, had not gone far! He simply re-
joined his company, then in garrison at Queue-en-Brie, in
the Ile-de-France, a few relays away from Paris.

THEEE HEARTS ' DIFFERENTLY, ' CONSITTUTED. ,165

After all, lie had no desire to appear at the trial in per-
son. He had a vague feeling that he should play a ridicu-
lous part in it. In fact, he did not quite know what to
think about the matter. Irreligious and superstitious, like
most soldiers who are nothing but soldiers, when he ques-
tioned himself concerning the affair, he felt somewhat
uneasy about the goat, about the strange fashion in which
he first met Esmeralda, the no less strange fasliion in
which she had allowed him to guess her love for him, the
fact of her gypsy blood, and lastly the goblin monk. He
had a dim idea that there was far more magic than love in
the story, that there was probably a witch, perhaps the
Devil, mixed up in it; it was a very disagreeable farce, or,
to use the language of the day, a mystery, in which he
played a most awkward part, — that of the butt for cuffs
and laughter. He felt quite sheepish about it ; he experi-
enced that kind of shame which La Fontaine so admira-
bly defines : —

Shamefaced as a fox by timid chicken caught.”

However, be hoped that the affair would not be noised
abroad, and that he being absent, his name would scarcely
be mentioned, and in any case would not be known outside
the court- room. In this he was not mistaken ; for there
was no Police Gazette then ; and as a week seldom passed
but there was some coiner boiled, or witch hanged, or
heretic burned, by one of the innumerable justices of
Paris, people were so much accustomed to seeing the old
feudal Tliemis at every street corner, with her sleeves
tucked up and her arms bare, doing her work at the gibbet,

1G6

NOTKE-DAMK.

the whipping-post, or the pillory, that they hardly noticed
lier. The aristocracy of that day scarcely knew the name
of the victim who passed them on the street, and at most it
was only the mob that regaled itself with tliis coarse meat.
An execution was a common incident in the highways,
like the baker’s kneading-trough, or the biitclier’s shambles.
The -hangman was hnt a kind of butcher a shade more
skilful than the other.

Phcebus accordingly soon set his mind at rest in regard
to the enchantress Esmeralda, or Similar, as he called
her; to the stab inflicted by the gypsy or the goblin
monk (to him it mattered little whicli) ; and to the issue
of the trial. But no sooner wxas his heart vacant on
that score, than the image of Fleur-de-Ijjs re-entered
it. The heart of Captain Phmbus, like the physics of
that time, abhorred a vacuum.

Besides, Queue-en-Brie was a very tedious abode, — a
village of farriers, and dairymaids with chapped fiaods ;
a long string of huts and hovels bordering the high-road
on either side for half a league.

Fleur-de-Lys was his last passion but one, — a pretty
girl with a delightful dowry; therefore, one fine morning,
completely cured of his wound, and feeling sure that aftei*
a lapse of two months the gypsy matter must be
and forgotten, the amorous knight appeared in state at
the door of the Gondelaiirier house.

He paid no heed to a somewhat numerous crowd wliich
had gathered in the square in front of hToti'o-Dame ; he
recollected that it was the month of May ; he suppctsed
there was some procession, that; it was Pentecost or some

THREE HEARTS DIEFEREHTLY CONSTITtJTEl). i,67

other holiday, fastened his horse to the ring at the porch,
and went joyously upstairs to see his fair betrothed.

She was alone with her mother.

Fleiir-de-Lys ever had upon her mind the scene with
tlie sorceress, her goat, her accursed alphabet^ and Fhcebus'
long absence. Still, when her captain entered, lie looked
so handsoine with his spick-and-span new uniform, his glit-
tering baldric, and his impassioned air, that she blushed
for pleasure. The noble damsel herself was more lovely
than ever. Her superb light hair was braided in the most
ravishing manner ; she was dressed from head to foot in
tliat sky-blue which is so becoming to fair skins, — a
piece of coquetry which Colombe had taught her; and
her eyes swam in that languor of love which is still
more becoming.

Phcebiis, who had seen no beauties of any sort since
he left the rustic wenches of Queue-en-Brie, was carried
away by Fleur-de-Lys, and this lent such cordiality and
gallantry to his manner that his peace was soon made.
Madame de Gondelaurier herself, still seated maternally
in her great arm-chair, had not tlie courage to scold him.
As for the reproaches of Fleur-de-Lys, they died away
iu tender cooings.

The young girl sat by the window, still working away
at her Neptune's cave. The captain leaned against the
back of her chair, and she addressed her affectionate com-
plaints to him in an undertone.

“Where have you been for these two months, you
naughty fello\y ? "

“ I swear/' replied Phoebus, somewhat embarrassed by

168

KOTEE-BAME.

the question, that yon are handsome enongii to disturb
the dreams of an archbishop.’’

She could not help siuiling.

There, there, sir ! Leave my beauty out of the ques-
tion, and answer me. Fine beauty, indeed!”

Well, dear cousin, I was sent back to garrison.”

'' And where, pray ? And why did n’t you come and
take leave of me ? ”

"'At Queue-en-Brie.”

Phmbus^ was enchanted that the first question helped
him to evade the second.

But that is close by, sir. Wliy did you never come
to see us ? ”

Here Phoebus was seriously embarrassed.

Why — my duties — And then, fair cousin, I have
been ill.”

''111!” she repeated, in alarm.

Yes, — w^ounded.”

" Wounded!”

The poor child was quite overcome.

'' Oh, don’t be frightened about that 1 ” said Phcebus,
indifferently ; it was nothing. A quarrel, a sword-thrust ;
why should that trouble you ? ”

Why should that trouble me ? ” cried Fleur-de-Lys,
raising lier lovely eyes bathed in tears. Oh, you do
not really mean what you say I What was tliis sword-
thrust ? I insist upon knowing everything.”

“Well, then, my dear, I had a row witli Mahd F^^xly,
— yon know whom I mean, — “the lieutenant from Saint-
Germain-en-Laye ; and each of us ripped up a few

THREE HEARTS 0IPEERENTLY CONSTITUTED, 169

io.clies of the other’s skin. That’s all there is about
it/’

The lying captain was well aware that an aflliir of
honor always exalts a man in a wornaiTs eyes. In fact,
Fieur-de-Lys looked him in the face, quivering with terror,
delight, and admiration. Still, she was not completely
reassured.

''If you are sure that you are quite cured, dear Phce-
bus!” said she. " I don’t know your Mahe F6dy, but
he is a bad man. And what did you quarrel about ? ”

Here Piicebus, whose imagination was only tolerably
active, began to wonder how he was to get out of the
scrape.

“Oh, I don’t know, — a trifle, a horse, a bit of gossip !
Fair cousin,” cried he, in order to change the conversa-
tion, “ what can that noise be in the square?”

He stepped to the window.

“ Heavens 1 fair cousin, what a crowd there is in the
square i ”

“ I don’t know,” said Fleur-de-Lys, “ but I heard that a
witch was to do public penance this morning before the
church, and to be hanged afterwards.”

Tlie captain felt so sure that Esmeralda’s affair was
well over, that he took very little interest in Fleur-de-
Lys’ words. Still, he asked her one or two questions.

“What is this witch’s name?”

“ I do not know,” replied she.

“And what do they claim that she has done?”

She again shrugged her white shoulders.

“ I don’t know.”

170

KOTRE-r)AME.

“ Oh, my sweet Saviour ! ” said the mother, there are
so many sorcerers nowadays, that they burn them, I verily
believe, withoixt knowing their names. You might as
well try to find out the name of every cloud in the sky.
After all, we may rest easy. The good God keeps His
list.^' Here the venerable lady rose, and came to the
window. Good Lord ! ” said she, '' you 're right, Phad3us.
What a rabble ! Bless me 1 if they have n't climbed upon
the house-tops ! Do you know, Phmbus, it reminds rne of
my young days. When King Charles VII. entered Paris,
there was exactly such a crowd. I 've Ibrgotten, now,
just what year that was. When I talk to you of such
matters, it seems to you like ancient history, does n't it,
while to me it seems quite recent. Oh, that was a much
finer-looking crowd than this is ! They even hung upon
the battlements of the Porte Saint- Antoine. The king had
the queen on the crupper behind him, and after their
Highnesses came all the ladies riding on the cruppers of
all the lords. I remember people laughed well because,
beside Amanyon de Garlande, who was very short of
stature, was my lord Matefelon, a knight of gigantic
size, who had killed heaps of Englishmen. It was a
splendid sight. A procession of all the gentlemen in
France, with their oriflarames blazing in our very eyes.
Some bore pennons and some bore banners. How can
I tell you who they all were? There was the Lord of
Calan, with his pennon; Jean de Chateaumorant with
his banner; the Lord of Coucy, with his banner, and a
showier one it was, too, than any of the others except
that of the Due de Bourbon. Alas! how sad it is to

THBEE HEARTS DIFFERENTLY CONSTITUTED. 171

think that all that has been, and that nothing of it
remains!'’

The two lovers did not listen to the worthy dowager.
Phoebus again leaned on the back of hi^ sweethearts
chair, — a charming position, whence his impudent gaze
pierced every opening in Pleur-de-Lys’ neckerchief. This
neckerchief gaped so opportunely, and permitted Mm to
note so many exquisite things, and to divine so many
others, that, dazzled by her skin with its satiny gloss, he
said to himself, '' How can anybody ever fall in love with
any but a fair-skinned woman ? ”

Both were silent. The young girl occasionally looked
up at him with rapture and affection, and their hair
mingled in a spring sunbeam.

Phoebus," suddenly said Eleur-de-Lys in a low voice,
“ we are to marry in three months : swear to me that
you have never loved any other woman but me.”

“ I swear it, lovely angel ! ” replied Phoebus, and his
passionate gaze combined with the truthful accent of his
voice to convince Fleur-de-Lys. Perhaps he even believed
liirnself at that instant.

Meanwhile the good mother, charmed to see the lovers
on such excellent terras, had left the room to attend to
some domestic detail Phoebus perceived this, and soli-
tude so emboldened the adventurous captain, that his brain
soon filled with very strange ideas. Fleur-de-Lys loved
him ; he was her betrothed ; she was alone with him ; liis
former fancy for her revived, not in all its freshness, but
in all its ardor. After all, it is no great crime to eat
some of your fruit before it is harvested. I know not

172

NOTRE-DAME.

wliefcher all these thoughts passed through his iniud, but
certain it is that Fleur-de-Lys was suddenly iVigliteiKMl
by the expression of his eyes. She looked al)out hei*^ and
saw that her mother had gone.

^Mieavensr’ said she, blushing and confused, “how
warm I feel!’’

“ Indeed, I think,” said Phoebus, “ that it must b(‘
almost noon. The sun is very annoying ; I !uul better
close the curtains.”

. JSTo, no,” cried the poor girl ; on the contmry, I want
■air.” ■ , • ■ . .

And like a deer which feels the hot Iweath of tlie pack,
she rose, ran to the window, opened it, and rushed out
upon the balcony.

Phoebus, vexed enough, followed her.

The square before the catliedral of Notre-Pame, upon
which, as we know, the balcony looked, at this moment
offered a strange and painful spectacle, whieli quickly
changed the nature of the timid Fleur-de-Lys’ Iright,

A vast throng, which overflowed into all the adjacent
streets, completely blocked the square. The little wall,
breast-high, which surrounded the central ])art, known as
the Parvis, would not have sufficed to keep it clear if it
had not been reinforced by a thick hedge of sergeants
of tlie Onze-Vingts and hackbuteers, culverin in liaml
Thanks to this thicket of pikes and arquebuses, it 3*e-
mained empty. The entrance was guarded by a body of
halberdiers bearing the bishop’s arms, Tlie wi<le churcli-
doors were closed, in odd contrast to the countless win-
dows overlooking the square^ which, open up to the very

THREE HEARTS DIEEERENTLY CONSTITUTEB. 173

gables, revealed thousands of heads heaped one upon
the other almost like the piles of cannon-balls in an
artillery park.

Tlie surface of this mob was gray, dirty, and foul. The
spectacle which it was awaiting was evidently one of
tliose which have the privilege ol extracting and collecting
all that is most unclean in the population. Nothing could
be more hideous than the noise wliich arose from that
s\varm of soiled caps and filthy liead-gear. In that crowd
there was more laughter than slioiiting ; there were more
women than men.

Now and then some sharp, shrill voice pierced the
general uproar.

“ Hollo 1 Mahiet Baliffre. Will she be hung yonder ? ”

Fool I that is where she ’s to do penance in her
shift. The priest will spit a little Latin at her. It
always done here at noon. If you are looking for the
gallows, you must go to the Grbve.”

1 11 go afterwards.”

I say, Boucanbry, is it true that she has refused a
confessor ? ”

“ So it seems, Bechaigne.”

''Look at that, the heathen!”

'‘Sir, it is the custom. The Palace bailiff is bound to
deliver over the malefactor, ■ sentence having been pro-
nounced, for execution, if it be one of the laity, to the

174

NOTRE-IMME.

provost of Paris ; if it be a scholar, to the judges of the
Bishop’s Court.

'' I thank you, sir.”

‘‘ Oh, Heavens !” said Fleur-de-Lys, the poor creature 1 ”
The thought of the unfortunate victim filled witli sad-
ness the glance which she cast upon the crowd. The
captain, far more absorbed in her than in that collection
of rabble, amorously fingered her girdle from beliiiid. She
turned with the smiling entreaty, —

“ For pity’s sake, let me alone, Phoebus ! If my mother
returned, she would see your hand I ”

At this instant the clock of Hotre-Dame slowly struck
twelve. A murmur of satisfaction burst from the crowd.
The last vibration of the twelfth stroke had scarcely died
away, when the sea of heads tossed like the waves on a
windy day, and a vast shout rose from the street, the
windows, and the roofs: —

There she is!”

Fleur-de-Lys covered her eyes with her hands that
she might not see.

My charmer,” said Phoebus, will you go in ? ”

'' No,” replied she ; and those eyes which she had closed
from fear she opened again from curiosity.

xi tumbril, drawn by a strong Norman cart-horse, and
entirely surrounded by cavalry in violet livery witlj wljite
crosses, had just entered the square from the Rue Saint-
Pierre-aux-Boeufs. The officers of the watch made a pas-
sage for it through the people with lusty blows of their
whips. Beside the tumbril rode a number of officers of

. ■ ' THREE . HEARTS DIFFERENTLY, CONSTITUTED. 1 76 '

justice and of police who might he known by their black
dress and their awkward seat in the saddle. Master
Jacques Charmolue paraded at their head. In the fatal
wagon sat a young girl, her arms bound behind her, and
no priest at her side. She was in her shift ; her long-
black locks (it was the fashion then not to cut them until
the foot of the gibbet was reached) fell upon her breast
and over her half-naked shoulders.

Through this floating hair, glossier than the raven’s
wing, a rough gray cord was twisted and knotted, chafing
her delicate skin, and winding about the poor girl’s grace-
ful neck like an earthworm around a flower. Beneath
this rope glittered a tiny amulet ornamented with green
glass beads, which she had doubtless been allowed to keep,
because nothing is refused to those about to die. The
spectators posted at the windows could see at the bottom
of the tumbril her bare legs, which she tried to hide
under her, as if by a last feminine instinct. At her feet
was a little goat, also hound. The prisoner held in her
teeth her shift, which was not securely fastened. Even
in lier misery she seemed to suffer at being thus exposed
almost naked to the public gaze. Alas ! it is not for such
tremors that modesty is made.

“ Only see, fair cousin,” said Eleur-de-Lys quickly to the
captain, it is that wicked gypsy girl with the goat.”

So saying, she turned to Phoebus. His eyes were fixed
upon the tumbril. He was very pale.

'' What gypsy girl with the goat ? ” he stammered.

'' Why, Phcebus ! ” rejoined Fleur-de-Lys ; don’t you
remember — ”

176

NOTBE-DAME.

rhcBbiis interrupted her, —

I don’t know what you mean.”

He took a step to re-enter ; but Fleur-de-Lys, whose
jealousy, already so deeply stirred by this same gypsy,
was again revived, cast a suspicious and penetrating look
at him. She now vaguely recalled having lieard that there
was a captain concerned in the trial of this sorceress.

What ails you ? ” said she to Phcebus ; '' one would
think that this woman had disturbed you.”

Phoebus tried to sneer.

Me ! Not the least in the world ! Me, indeed 1 ”

^‘Then stay,” returned she, imperiously ; ‘' let us see it
out.”

The luckless captain was forced to remain. He was
somewhat reassured when he found that the prisoner did
not raise her eyes from the bottom of her tumbril. It was
but too truly Esmeralda. Upon this last round of the
ladder of opprobrium and misfortune she was still beauti-
ful ; her large black eyes looked larger than ever from the
thinness of her cheeks; her livid profile was pure and
sublime. She resembled her former self as one of Ma-
saccio’s Virgins resembles a Virgin by Raphael, — feebler,
thinner, weaker.

Moreover, her whole being was tossed liither and
thither, and, save for her sense of modesty, she had
abandoned everything, so utterly was she crushed by
stupor and despair. Her body rebounded with every jolt
of the cart, like some shattered, lifeless thing. A tear
still lingered in her eye, but it was motionless, and, as it
were, frozen.

THKEE HEARTS DIEFERENTLY CONSTITUTED. 177

Meantime the mournful cavalcade had traversed tlie
crowd uuiid shouts of joy and carious stares. Still, we
must confess, as faithful historians, that many, even the
hardest hearted, were moved to pity at the sight of so
much beauty and so much misery.

The tumbril had entered the Parvis.

Pefore the central door it stopped. The escort was
drawn up in line on either side. The mob was hushed,
and amidst this solemn, anxious silence the two leaves
of the great door moved, as if spontaneously, upon their
creaking hinges. Then the entire length of the deep,
dark church was seen, hung with black, faintly lighted
by a few glimmering tapers upon the high altar, and
opening like the jaws of some cavern in the middle of
the square, dazzling with light. At the very end, in
the shadows of the chancel, a huge silver cross was dimly
visible; standing out in relief against a black cloth which
hung from the roof to the floor. The whole nave was
empty ; but heads of priests were seen moving confusedly
among the distant choir-stalls, and, at the moment that
the great door was thrown open, a loud, solemn, and mo-
notonous chant proceeded from the chiircli, casting frag-
ments of dismal psalms, like gusts of wind, upon the
prisoner s head : —

''Non timebo millia populi circ%mdcmMs me: ejestirge^
Do mine ; salv mn me fae^ Dctts !

" Saknmi me fa% Deus^ qmnimn mtraverimi aqim
imjue ad animam memm

“ Tn/miis mm in Umo profundi; el non esi substantia.'’

At tlie same time anothei' voice, apart from the choir,

178

HOTRE-DAME.

intoned from the steps of the high altar this iiioiirnful
offertory: —

Qui verhum meum audit j et credit ei qui misit mi\
hahet vitam^ ceter7iam et in judicium won venU ; sexl irayi-
sit a mortc in mtcmn!'

This chant, sung afar off by a few old men lost in the
darkness, over that beautiful being full of life and youth,
caressed by the warm air of spring, ' bathed in sunshine,
was a part of the mass for the dead. •

The people listened quietly.

The wretched victim, in her terror, seemed to lose all
power of sight and thought in the dark interior of the
church. Her pale lips moved as if in prayer, and when
the hangman’s assistant approached to help her down from
the cart, he heard her murmur in an undertone the word
« Phoebus!”

Her hands were untied, and she alighted, accompanied
by her goat, which was also unbound, and which bleated
with delight at regaining its freedom ; and she was then
led barefooted over the hard pavement to the foot of the
steps leading to the porch. The cord about her neck
trailed behind her, like a serpent pursuing lier.

Then the chanting in the church ceased. A great gold
cross and a file of tapers began to move in the gloom.
The halberds of the beadles in their motley dress claslied
against the floor; and a few moments later a long pro-
cesvsion of priests in chasubles and deacons in dalmatics
marched solemnly towards the prisoner, singing psalms as
they came. But her eyes were fixed upon him who
walked at their head, immediately after the cross-bearer.

THREE HEARTS DIFFERENTLY CONSTITUTED.- 179 ,

Oh/’ she whispered shudderingly, '' there he is again !
the priest !'”.

It was indeed the archdeacon. On his left was the as-
sistant precentor, and on his right the precentor himself,
armed with the wand of his office. He advanced, with
head thrown back, eyes fixed and opened wide, chanting
in a loud voice: —

De ventre infeti clamaviy et exaiiclisti vocem meam,

M iwojecidi me in profwnclum in corde maris, et Jiu-
men circumdedit me ''

When he appeared in full daylight under the lofty
pointed arch of the portal, wrapped in a vast cope of clotli
of silver embroidered with a black cross, he was so pale
that more than one of the crowd thought that he must be
one of those marble bishops kneeling upon the monuments
in tlie choir, who had risen and come forth to receive on
the threshold of the tomb her who wms about to die.

She, no less pale and no less rigid, hardly noticed that
a heavy lighted taper of yellow wax had been placed in
her hand ; she did not hear the shrill voice of the clerk
reading the fatal lines of the penance; wlien she was told
to answer ''Amen,” she answered "Amen.” Hor was she
restored to any slight sense of life and strength, until she
saw tlie priest sign to her jailers to retire, and himself
advance alone towards lier.

Then the blood boiled in her veins, and a lingering
spark of indignation was rekindled in that already numb,
cold soul

The archdeacon approached her slowly; even in this
extremity she saw him gaz;e upon her nakedness with

180

NOTRE-DAME.

eyes glittering with passion, jealousy, and desire. Then
he said to her aloud, Young girl, have you asked God
to pardon your faults and failings ?

He bent to her ear, and added (the spectators supposed
that he was receiving her last confession) : Will you
be mine? I can save you even yet!*' .

She gazed steadily at him : “ Begone, demon 1 or I will
denounce you I

He smiled a horrible smile. jSTo one will believe
you ; you would only add a scandal to a crime. Answer
(piickly 1 Will you be mine ? ”

“ What have you done with my Plicebus ? ”

He is dead I said the priest.

At this moment the miserable archdeacon raised his
head mechanically, and saw at the opposite end of'the
square, upon the balcony of the Goudelaurier house,
the captain standing beside Fleur-de-Lys. He staggered,
passed his hand over his eyes, looked again, murmured a
curse, and all his features were violently convulsed.

'' So be it 1 die yourself 1 he muttered. No one els(3
shall possess you/'

Then, raising his hand above the gypsy girTs Iiead, he
exclaimed in funereal tones, I nunc, anima auee^Js, ot
sit tihi Bms miscricors ! "

This was the awful formula with wluch these sombre
ceremonies were wont to close. It was the signal agreed
upon between the priest and the executioner.

The people knelt.

^^Kyrie, deimi*' the priests beneatli tlie undi of the

182

NOTRE-BAME.

'' Amen,'' said the archdeacon.

He turned his back upon the prisoner, his head again
fell upon his breast, his hands were crossed, he rejoined
his train of priests, and a moment later he disappeared,
with cross, candles, and copes, beneath the dim arches of
the cathedral, and his sonorous voice faded slowly down
the choir, chanting these words of despair : —

Omnes gurgiies tui et Jluctus tid sufer me tmnsienrnt ! ”

At the same time tlie intermittent echo of the iion-
bound shaft of the beadles’ halberds, dying away by de-
grees between the columns of the nave, seemed like the
hammer of a clock sounding the prisoner’s linal liour.

Meantime the doors of Notre-Dame remained open, re-
vealing the church, empty, desolate, clad in mourning,
silent and unlighted.

The prisoner stood motionless in her place, awaiting
her doom. One of the vergers was obliged to warn Mas-
ter Charmolue, who, during this scene, liad been studying
the bas-relief upon the great porch, which represents, ac-
cording to some, the Sacrifice of Abraham ; according to
others, the great Alchemical Operation, the siiii being
typified by the angel, the fire by the fagot, and the oj>era-
tor by Abraham.

He was with some difficulty withdrawn from tliis con-
templation ; but at last he turned, and, at a sign from him,
two men clad in yellow, the executioner’s aids, approached
the gypsy girl to refasten her hands.

The unhappy creature, as she was about to remount the
fatal tumbril and advance on her last Journey, was per-
haps seized by some poignant regret for tlie life she was

■THREE. HEARTS DIFFEEEHTLY ' CONSTITUTED, 183^

no soon to lose. Slie raised her dry and fevered eyes tr^
heaven, to the sun, to the silvery clouds here and tliere
intersected by siiuares and triangles of azure ; then she
cast thein down around her, upon the ground, the crowd,
the houses. All at once, while the men in yellow were
binding her elbows^ she uttered a terrible siiriek, — a

shriek of joy. r}Kin yonder balcony, there, at the eoiuier
of tfic square, she had just seen him, her lover, her lord,
Phcehus, the other apparition of her life.

The judge luul lied! the jiriest had lie<l! It was in-
deed iie, she could not doubt it ; he was tiiere, liaiidsome,
living, clad in his splendid iinifono, tlie plume upon liis
head, his sword at his side !

Pkebus ! '' she cried ; '' my Phoebus !’'

And she strove to sti’etch out her arms quivering with
love and rapture ; but they were bound.

Then she saw the captain frown, a lovely young girl
who leaned upoii him look at him with scornful lip and
..'angry eyes ; then Plimbus uttered a few words which did
not reach her, and both vanislied hastily through the win-
dow of the bah^ony, which was closed behind tliem.

Ilicebus,” she cried in despair, do you believe this
thing i ”

A monstrous idea liad dawned upon her. She reinem-
bered that she had been condemned for the murder ol'
Capbiin Ilimbus cle Ch^teauperSi ■

She laid borne everything until now* But this last blow
was too severe. She fell senseless upon the pavement.

'‘Come/' sahb 'Charmolue, '‘Miffe' her Into the tumbril,

184

NOTEE-DAME.

Ko one had observed, in the gallery of statues of the
kings carved just above the pointed arches (jf the pnrch,
a strange spectator who had until now watched all that
happened with, such impassivity, with so outstreleherl
a neck, so deformed a visage, that, had it not been
for his parti-colored red and violet garb, he might hiive
passed for one of those stone monsters througli whose
jaws the long cathedral gutters have for six centuries past
disgorged themselves. This spectator had lost noUiing
that had peissed since noon before the doors ot Xotre-
Dame. And at the very beginning, unseen by any one,

he' ■'■liad ''.'firmly '■"■at-'','
'taclied^ to'' one'' of , tlie ■
".small ' '.col urn 'US' ' ol‘
'the''," gallery ' .a s't',roiig
"knotted .■■ '■•rope, the'.' .
end of which trailed
upon the ground be-
low. This done, he
began to look about
him quietly, and tc»
wliistle from tiim^
to time when a
blackbird fle^v by
him.

All at once, just
as the hangman's assistants were preparing to execute
Charrnolue's phlegmatic order, he bestrode the balus-
trade of the gallery, seized the rope with his feet, knees,
and hands; then he slid down the facade as a drop of

THEKE HEAETS BIFEBliE'NTLY CONSTITUTED. . '/ISS.

rain glides down a window-pane, ruslied towards tlie two
executioners with tlie rapidity of a cat falling iVoiii a roof,
flung them to the ground with Ids two huge lists, seized
tlie gypsy girl in one hand, as a child might a doll, and
witli one bonud was in the church, holding her above his
hc‘ad, and shouting in a tremendous voice, —

“ Sanctuary I

All this was done with such speed, tliat Imd it been,
night, one. Hash of ligl, lining would have sulticed to see
it all

‘uSanctuaiy ' sanctuary T* repeated the rnob; and the
clapping of ten thousand hands made Quasimodo’s single
eye tiash witli pride and pleasure.

This slioek restored the prisoner to her senses. She
raisesl her eyelids, looked at Quasimodo, then closed them
suddenly, as if alarmed by her saviour.

Channolue stood stupefied, and the hangman and all
the escort did the same. In lact, within the precincts of
Noire-Dame the prisoner was secure; the cathedral was
a sure place of refuge; all human justice died upon its
threshold,

Quasimodo had paiised beneath the great portal, his
broad feet seeming as firmly rooted to the pavement of
the church as the heavy Koman pillars. His big bushy
Iu?ad was buried betweeji his shoulders like the head of a
lion which also has a mane and no, neck. He held the
young girl, trembling from head to foot, suspended in liis
horny hands like a white drapery; but he carried her
as carefully as if he feared, he should break or injure
her. He seemed to feel that she was a delicate, exquisite,

186

NOTEE-DAME.

precious thing, made for other hands than his. At times
he looked as if he dared not touch her, even with his
breath. Then, all at once, he pressed her close in his
arms, upon his angular bosom, as Ids treasure, his only
wealth, as her mother might have done. His gnome-like
eye, resting upon her, flooded her with tenderness, grief,
and pity, and was suddenly lifted, flashing fire. Then the
wmmen laughed and wept, the mob stamped with enthu-
siasm, for at that instant Quasimodo was truly beautihil.
He was beautiful, — he, that orphan, that foundling, that
outcast ; he felt himself to be august and strong ; he con-
fronted that society from which he was banished, and
with whose decrees he had so powerfully interfered, that
human justice from which he had wrested its prey, all
those tigers with empty jaws, those myrmidons, those
judges, those executioners, all that royal will which he
had crushed, he, — the lowliest of creatures, with the
strength of God.

Then, too, how touching was the protection extended
by so deformed a creature to one so unfortunate as the
girl condemned to die, and saved by Quasimodo ! It was
the two extreme miseries of Hature and society meeting
and mutually aiding each other.

However, after a few moments of triumph, Quasimodo
plunged abruptly into the' church with his burden. Tlie
people, lovers of all prowess, followed him witli tlieir eyes,
regretting that he had so soon withdrawn from their
plaudits. All at once he reappeared at one end of the
gallery of the kings of France; he ran along it like a load-
man, holding his conquest, aloft, and shouting, "Sane-

THREE HE:A.RTS BiEFERENTLY C0>^\STITU1FD. 187

tuary ! The crowd broke into fresli applause. ’ The
gallery traversed^ he again rushed into the interior of the
ciuirch. A iiioinent after, he reappeared upon the upper
platform, the gypsy still in his arms, still ninning fran-
tically, still shouting, ** Sanctuary ! and the mob ap-
plauded. At lust he appeared for tlie third time upon
the summit of the tower of the big bell ; from thence he
seemed with pride to show the whole city lier whom lie
liad saved, and his thundering voice — tkit voice so rarely
heard by any one, and never by himself — repeated thrice,
with frenzy that pierced the very clouds : “ Sanctuary !
Sanctuary 1 Sanctuary 1 ”

Noel ! Hold 1 '' cried the people in their turn ; and that
vast shout was heard with amazement by the throng in
the Grbve on the other bank of the river, and by the re-
cluse, who still waited, her eyes riveted to the gallows.

DELIRIUM,

C LAUDE FEOLLO was no longer in JSTotre-Daine
when his adopted son so abruptly cut the fatal
knot in which the wretched archdeacon had caught the
gypsy and was himself caught. Eeturning to the sacristy,
he had snatched off his alb, cope, and stole, flung them all
into the hands of the amazed sacristan, fled througli the
private door of the cloisters, ordered a boatman of the
Terrain to set him over to the left bank of the Seiiie,
and plunged in among the hilly streets of the University,
not knowing whither he went, meeting* at every turn

DELIEllIM. 189

bauils of men and women hastening gayly towards the l^>nt
Saint- Michel iir the hope that they miglit yet be in tinn^
to see the witch hanged, — pale, haggard, more bewildered,
blinder, and fiercer than a night-bird let loose in broad
daylight and pursued by a troop of boys. He no longer
knew wliere be was, what he did, whetlier lie was dream-
ing or awake. He went on, he walked, lie ran, taking any
street at haphazard, but still urged forward by the (h'tive,
the horrible (InV'e, wdiicli he vaguely felt behind him.

In this way he passed St. Genevihve’s Mount, and finally
left the town by the Porte Saint-Victor. He continued
to flee as long as he could see, oii turning, the ring of
towers around the University, and tlie scattered houses
of the suburb; but when at last a ridge completely hid
that odious Paris, w’hen he could imagine himself a hun-
dred leagues aw’ay in the fields, in a desert, he paused,
and it seemed as if he hreatlied again.

Then frightful thoughts crowded upon him. Once more
he saw into his soul as clear as day, and he shuddered at
the sight He thought of the unhappy girl who had
destroyed liim, and wliom he had destroyed. He cast a
despairing glance at the douldy-crooked path along which
Fate had led their destinies, up to tlie meeting-point
where it had pitilessly dashed them against each other.
He thought of tlie folly of eternal vows, of the vanity of
chastity, science, religion, virtue, and the uselessness of
God. He indulged in evil thoughts to his heart's con-
tent, and as he yielded to them, he felt himself giving
way to Satanic laughter.

And as he thus searched' his "-soul, when he saw how

190

NOTBE-DAME.

large a space Nature had reserved therein for the pas-
sions, he sneered more bitterly stilL He stirred up all
the hatred and malice from the very depths of his heart;
and he recognized, with the cold gaze of a physician study-
ing his patient, that this malice was nothing but love
perverted; that love, the source of all virtue in man,
turned to horrible things in the heart of a priest, and
that a man formed like him, when he became a priest
became a demon. Then he laughed fearfully, and all at
once he again turned pale, as he considered the most for-
bidding side of his fatal passion, — of that corrosive, veno-
mous, malignant, implacable love which led but to the
gallows for one, to hell for the other : she condemned, he
damned.

And then he laughed anew as he reflected that Phoebus
was alive; that after all the captain lived, was light-
hearted and content, had finer uniforms than ever, a new
sweetheart whom he brought to see the old one lianged:
His sneers were redc^ubled when he reflected that, of all
the living beings whose death he had desired, the gypsy
girl, the only creature whom he did not hate, was the only
one who had not escaped him.

Then from the captain his mind wandered to the mob,
and he w^as overcome with jealousy of an unheard-of kind.
He thought that tlie mob/ too, the entire mob, had had
before their eyes the woman whom lie loved, in her shift,
almost naked. He writhed as he thought that this woman,
whose form, half seen by him alone in darkness would
have afforded him supreme delight, had been exposed in
broad daylight at high noon to an entire multitude clad

DELIRIUM.

191

as for a niglit of pleasure. He wept with rage over all
those mysteries of love profaned, soiled, exposed, withered
forever. He wept with rage, picturing to himself the foul
eyes which had revelled in that scanty covering ; and that
that lovely girl, tliat virgin lily, that cup of modesty and
delight, to which he dared not place his lips without
trembling, had been made common property, a vessel from
wliicli the vilest rabble of Paris, thieves, beggars, and
lackeys, had come to quaff together a shameless, impure,
and depraved pleasure.

And wlien he strove to picture the bliss wdiich he
might have found upon earth if she had not been a gypsy
and lie had not been a priest, if Phoebus had never lived,
and if she had loved him ; when he imagined the life of
peace and love whicli might have been possible for him
also ; when he thought that there were even at that very
instant liere and there on the earth, happy couples lost in
long talks beneath orange-trees, on the border of streams,
beneath a setting sun or a starry heaven ; and that, had
Ood so willed, he might have formed with her one of those
blest couples, his heart melted within him in tenderness
and despair.

Oh, she! it is she! She, the one idea which returned
evw and again, torturing him, turning his brain, gnawing
his vitals. He regretted nothing, repented notliing; all
that he had done he was ready to do again; he preferred
to >see her in the hangman^s hands ratlier than in the
captain’s arms. But he'sutfet'ed; he suffered so intensely,
that at times he tore-’ out his, hair by 'handfuls; to see if
it had not turned white with .anguish.

192 NOTllE-DAME.

There was one moment among tlie rest when it occiuTed
to him that this was possibly the minute when the hideous
chain which he had seen that morning was drawing its
iron noose closer and ever closer around that slender,
gi'aceful neck. This idea made the perspiration start
from every pore.

There was another moment when, while laughing devil-
ishly at himself, he pictured at one and the same time
Esmeralda as he had first seen her, — alert, heedless,
happy, gayly dressed, dancing, winged, and harmonious,
and Esmeralda as he had last seen her, — in her shift,
with the rope about her neck, slowly approaching with
her bare feet the cruel gallows ; and this double picture
was so vivid that he uttered a terrible cry.

While this whirlwind of despair overwhelmed, crushed,
broke, bent, and uprooted every thing, in his soul, he con-
sidered the scene around him. At his feet some hens
were peeking and scratching among the bushes, enamelled
beetles crawled in the sun; above his head, groups of dap-
pled gray clouds sailed over the blue sky ; in the horizon,
the spire of the Abbey of Saint-Victor cut the curve of the
hill with its slated obelisk ; and the miller of the Buttes
Copeaux whistled as he watched the busy wlieels of his
mill go round. All this active, industrious, tranquil life,
reproduced around him in a thousand forms, hurt him.
He again tried to escape.

Thus he ran through the fields until nightfall. This
flight from IsTature, life, himself, man, God, everything,
lasted the entire day. Sometimes he threw himself face
downwards upon the earth, and tore up the young corn

194

NOTRE-T)AME.

with his imils : sometimes he paused in some deserted
village street; and his thoughts were so uneiidurahle that
he seized his head in both hands and tried to snatch it
irom his shoulders that he might dash it to pieces upon
the ground.

Towards sunset he examined himself anew, and found
that he was almost mad. The tempest which liad been
raging within him from the instant that he lost all hope
and will to save the gypsy girl had not left a single sane
idea, a single sound thought, in his brain. His reason was
laid low by it, was almost wholly destroyed by it. His
mind retained but two distinct images, — Esmeralda and the
scaffold ; all else was black. Those two closely-connected
images presented a frightful group ; and the more he fixed
upon them such power of attention and intellect as he still
retained, the more they, seemed to grow, by a fantastic pro-
gression,— the one in grace, charm, beauty, light, the other
in horror; so that at last Esmeralda appeared to him as a
star, the gibbet as an enormous fleshless arm.

It was a reinar]<able thing that in spite of all this tor-
ment he never seriously thought of suicide. The wretch
was so constituted. He clung to life. Perhaps he really
saw hell larking in the background.

Meantime, the day continued to decline. That spark of
life which still burned witliin him dreamed dimly of re-
turning home. He fancied himself remote from Paris ;
but on examination he discovered that he had merely
made the circuit of the University. The spire of Saint-
Sulpice and the three lofty pinnacles of Saint-Germain des
Pr& rose above the horizon oil his right. He proceeded

BELIBIliM.

195

in that direction. When he heard the cliallenge of the
abl^ot's men-at-arms around the battlemented walls of
Saint-Germain, he turned aside, took a footpath which
lie saw between the abbey mill and the lazaretto of the
suburb, and in a few moments found himself at the edge of
the Prd-auK-Clercs. This meadow was famous for the riots
going on there continually, day and night ; it was the
''hydra-headed monster” of the poor monks of Saint-Ger-
main : " Qaocl monachis Sancti-Germani 2^^’(^tcnsis hydra
fuit, clcricis nova semper dissidiorum cainta mscitantihus.''
The archdeacon dreaded meeting some one there ; he was
afraid of any human face; he had shunned the University
and the village of Saint-Germain ; he was determined not
to enter the city streets any earlier than he could help.
He skirted the Prd-aux-Clercs, took the deserted path di-
viding it from the Dieu-Neuf, and at last reached the bank
of the river. There he found a boatman, who for a few
farthings rowed him up the Seine as far as the City, where
he landed him on that strip of waste land where the reader
has already seen. Gringoire indulging in a reverie, and
which extended beyond the king's gardens, parallel with
the island of the Passeur-aux-Vaches.

The monotonous rocking of the boat and the ripple of
the water had somewhat stupefied the unhappy Claude.
When the boatman had gone, he stood upon the shore in a
dazed condition, staring straight forward, and seeing every-
tliing in a sort of luminous mist which seemed to dance
before his eyes. The fatigue of great grief often produces
this effect upon the brain.

The sun had set behind the tall Tour-de-l^esle. It was

196

NOTRE-DAME.

twilight The sky was silvery, the water in the river was
silvery too. Between these two silver whites, the left bank
of the Seine, upon which his eyes were riveted, stretched
its sombre length, and, tapering in the distance, faded away
at last among the hazes of the horizon in the shape of a
black spire. It ^vas covered with houses, whose dark out-
lines only were visible, cast in strong relief against the
bright background of cloud and water. Here and there
windows began to glow like live embers. The vast black
obelisk thus detached between the two white masses of sky
and river, the latter very broad just here, produced a strange
effect on Don Claude, such as might be felt by a man lying
fiat on his back at the foot of the Strasburg cathedral, and
gazing up at the huge spire piercing the twilight shadows
over his head. Only here, Claude was standing and the
obelisk lying low ; but as the river, by reflecting the sky,
prolonged the abyss beneath, the vast promontory seemed
to shoot into space as boldly as any cathedral spire ; and
the impression produced was the same. The impression
was made even stronger and more singular by the fact that
it w’as indeed the Strasburg steeple, but the Strasburg
steeple two leagues high, — something unheard-of, gigantic,
immeasurable ; a structure such as no human eye ever
beheld ; a Tower of Babel. The chimneys of the houses,
the battlements of the wall, the carved gables of the roofs,
the spire of the Augustine monastery, the Tour de hTesle,
all these projections which marred the outline of the co-
lossal obelisk, added to the illusion by grotesquely coun-
terfeiting to the eye the indentations of some rich and
fantastic carving.

DELIRIUM.

197

Ciaude, in the state of halluciiiatioii in whicli he then
was, believed that he saw — saw with his bodily eyes — the
pinnacles of hell ; the countless lights scattered from end
to end of the awful tower appeared to him like so many
doors leading to the vast furnace within ; the voices and
the sounds which arose from it, like so many shrieks and
groans. Then he was terrified ; he clapped his hands to
his ears that he might not hear them, turned his back that
he might not see, and hastened away from the fearful
vision.

But the vision was within him.

When he once more entered the city streets, the passing
people elbowing each other in the light of the shop win-
dows afiected him like the never-ending coming and going
of spectres. There were strange noises in his ears; ex-
traordinary images troubled his senses. He saw neither
houses, nor pavement, nor chariots, nor men and women,
but a chaos of indeterminate objects which melted into
one another. At the corner of the Eue de la Barillerie,
there was a grocer’s shop, the sloping roof of which was,
according to immemorial custom, hung with tin hoo];)S,
from each of which was suspended a circle of wooden
candles, which clattered and clashed in the wind like
castanets. He fancied he heard the heap of skeletons
at Montfaucon knocking their bones against one another
in the darkness.

'' Oh,” he muttered, “ the night wind dashes them to-
gether, and mingles the sound of their chains with the
rattle of their bones I Perhaps she too is there among
them!”

198

NOTHE-DAME.

Bewildered and distracted, he knew not where he went.
After walking a few steps, he found himself upon tlie
Pont Saint-Michel. There was a light at the window of
a room on the ground-floor; he went up to it. Tlirougli a
cracked pane he saw a dirty room, which roused a vague
memory in his brain. In this room, dimly lighted by a
small lamp, there was a fresh, fair-haired, merry-faced
youth, who with loud bursts of laughter kissed a gaudily-
dressed girl ; and near the lamp sat an old woman spinning,
and singing in a cracked voice. As the young man occa-
sionally ceased laughing, fragments of the old woman’s
song reached the priest; it was something unintelligible
and frightful: —

Greve, growl, Greve !

Spin, spin, my spindle brave,

For the hangman spin a cord,

As he whistles in the prison yard
Bark, Greve, growl, Greve I

^*Tlie lovely hempen cord forevermore !

Sow from Issy e"en to Vanvre’s shore
Hemp, and never of corn a graiiir
No thief will ever steal for gain
The lovely hempen cord.

“Growl, Greve, bark, Greve!

To see the wanton and the knave
Hanging on the gallows high.

Every window is an eye.

Growl, Greve, bark, Greve ! ”

Hereupon the young man lauglied,.and caressed the girL
The old woman was Mother Falourdel; the girl was a
woman of the town; the young man was his brother
Jehiui.

DELIRIUM.

199

He continued to gaze. As well this sight as another.

He saw Jehaii go to a window at the back of the room,
open it, cast a glance at the quay, where countless lighted
windows gleamed in the distance, and he heard him say, as
he closed the window, —

“ By my soul I it is night already. The citizens have
lighted their cajidles, and the good God his stars.”

Then Jehan went back to the girl and broke a bottle
which stood on the table, exclaiming, —

'' Empty already, by Jove ! and I have no more money !
Isabeaa, my love, I shall never feel content with Jupiter
until he turns your two white breasts into two black
bottles, whence I may suck Beaune wine night and
day.”

This witticism made the girl laugh, and Jehan sallied
forth.

Don Claude had barely time to throw himself on the
ground, lest he should be encountered, looked in the face,
and recognized by his brother. Luckily, the street was
dark, and the student was drunk. However, he noticed
the archdeacon lying on the pavement in the mire.

Ho 1 ho I ” said he ; here 's a fellow who has led a
jolly life to-day.”

With his foot he stirred Don Claude, who held his
breath.

"‘Dead drunk,” continued Jehan. "‘Well, he is full, —
a regular leech dropped from a cask because he can suck
no more. He is bald,” he added, stooping ; "" he is an old
man ! FoTtunaU senex I ” ,

Then Don Claude heard him move off, saying, —

200

IS^OTKE-DAME.

All tiie same, reason is a line thing, and my brother
tile archdeacon is very lucky to be both wise and rich/’

Tile archdeacon then rose, and ran at full speed in tiie
direction of Notre-Dame, whose enormous towers rose be-
Ibre him in the darkness above the surrounding houses.

Wlien, quite breathless, he reached the square in front
of the cathedral, lie shrank back, and dared not raise his
eyes to the fatal building.

"‘Oh,’' said he in a low tone, '‘is it indeed true that
such a thing can have occurred here to-day, — this very
morning ?

Still he ventured to look at the church. Tlie front was
dark ; the sky behind it glittered with stars. The crescent
moon, which had just risen above the horizon, had that in-
stant paused at the summit of the right-hand tower, and
seemed to have perched, like a luminous bird, ou the edge
of the railing, wliich was cut into black trefoils.

The cloister door was closed, but the archdeacon always
carried about him the key to the tower in which was
his laboratory. He now used it to let himself into the
church.

Inside, all was gloomy and silent as the tomb. By the
heavy shadows falling on all sides in broad masses, he
knew that the hangings put up for the morning’s cere-
monies had not yet been removed. The great silver cross
gleamed through the darkness, dotted with sparkling points
of light, like the milky way of this sepulchral niglit. Tlie
long choir windows showed the tops of their pointed arches
above the black drapery,, the panes, traversed by a moon-
beam, wearing only the doubtful colors of the night, —

DELIRIUM.

201

a sort of violet, white, and blue, in tints whicli are found
nowhere else save on the face of the dead. The arch-
deacon, seeing these pale points of arches all around the
choir, fancied that he beheld the mitres of bishops who
had been damned. He shut his eyes, and when he re-
opened them, he imagined that there was a circle of ashen
faces gazing at him.

He fled across the church. Then it seemed to him that
the church, too, moved, stirred, breathed, and lived; that
each big column became a monstrous leg, which pawed
the ground with its broad stone hoof ; and that the vast
cathedral was only a sort of prodigious elephant, wliich
panted and trampled, with pillars for feet, its two towers
for tusks, and the immense black draperies for caparison.

Thus his fever, or mania, had attained such a degree of
intensity that the external world had ceased to be to the
unfortunate man anything more than a sort of Apocalypse,
visible, tangible, terrifying.

For one moment he was comforted. As he entered the
aisles, he perceived, behind a group of pillars, a reddish
light, towards which he hastened as towards a star. It
was the poor lamp which burned day and night above the
public breviary of Hotre-Dame, under its iron grating.
He fell eagerly to reading the sacred book, in the hope
of finding some consolation or some encouragement. The
volume was open at this passage from Job, over which his
fixed eye ran : —

Then a spirit passed before my face ; the hair of my
flesh vStood up.’'

On reading this melancholy passage, he felt as a blind

202

HOTRE-DAME.

man feels who is pricked by the stafi‘ which he has pic^^^
up. His knees gave way beneath him, and he sank to the
ground, thinking of her who had that day perished. Such
awful fumes rose up and penetrated his brain, that it
seemed to him as if his head had become one of the
mouths of hell.

He remained some time in this position, incapable of
tliought, crushed and powerless in the hand of the demon
that possessed him. At last, some measure of strength re-
turned to him ; it occurred to him to take refuge in the
tower, with his faithful Quasimodo. He rose, and as he
was frightened, he took, to light his steps, the lamp from
the breviary. This was a sacrilege, but he had ceased to
heed such trifles.

He slowly climbed the tower stairs, full of secret terror,
which must have been shared by the few passers-by out-
side ill the sc^uare, who saw the mysterious light of his
lamp moving at that late hour from loophole to looj)hole,
to the top of the tower.

All at once he felt a freshness upon his face, and
found himself under the door of the uppermost gallery.
The air was cold ; tlie sky was overcast witli clouds, whose
large white masses encroached one upon the other, round-
ing the sharp corners, and looking like the breaking-up
of the ice in a river in winter. The crescent moon,
stranded in the midst of the clouds, seemed a celestial
ship caught fast among these icebergs of the air.

He cast down his eyes, and looked for a moment
between the iron rails of. the small columns which con-
nect the two towers, far away, through a mist of fog and

DELIRIUM.

203

smoke, at the silent throng of the roofs of Paris, — steep,
numberless, crowded close together, and small as the
waves of a calm sea on a summer’s night.

Tlie moon shed a faint light, which lent an ashen
tint to both heaven and earth.

At this moment the clock raised its shrill, cracked
voice ; it struck midnight. The priest’s thoughts reverted
to noonday ; it was again twelve o’clock.

Oh,” he whispered, she must be cold by this time ! ”

Suddenly a blast of wind extinguished bis lamp, and
almost at the same instant he saw, at the opposite cor-
ner of the tower, a shadow, something white, a figure, a
woman. He trembled. By this woman’s side was a little
goat, which mingled its bleat with the final bleat of the
bell

He had the courage to look at her. It was she.

She was pale ; she was sad. Her hair fell loosely over
her slioulders, as in the morning, but there was no rope
about her neck; her hands were no longer bound. She
was free; she was dead.

She was dressed in white, and had a white veil over
her head.

She came towards him slowly, looking up to heaven.
The supernatural goat followed her. He felt as if turned
to stone, and too heavy to escape. At each step that she
advanced, he took one backwards, and that was all- In
this way he retreated beneath the dark arch of the stair-
case. He Avas frozen with fear at the idea that she might
perhaps follow him thither; had she done so, he would
have died of terror.

204

NOTRB-DAME.

She did indeed approach the staircase door, pause there
r a few moments, look -steadily into the darkness, hut

le moon

K‘ , ,

without appearing to see

seemed to him taller than

!i V '

through her white robes;

h

DELIBIUM,

When she had passed him, he began to descend the
stairs with the same slow motion as the spectre, imagin-
ing that he too was a spectre, — haggarf, his hair
his extinguished lamp still in liis hand; and as he went
down the spiral stairs, he distinctly heard in liis ear a
mocking voice, which repeated the words, —

‘'A spirit passed before my face; the hair oi* my ilesh

IL

DEFORMED, BLIND, LAME.

E very city in the Middle Ages — and up to the time
of Louis XII. every city in France — had its places
of refuge, its sanctuaries. These places of refuge, amidst
tlie deluge of penal laws and barbarous jurisdictions which
Hooded the city of Paris, were like so many islands rising
above the level of human justice. Every criminal who
landed there was saved. In each district there were al-
most us many places of refuge as gallows. The abuse
of a privilege went side by side with the abuse of ])un-
ishment, — two bad things, each striving to correct tlu^
other. Royal palaces, princely mansions, and above all
churches, had the right of sanctuary ; sometimes an entire
town which stood in need of re-population was given

DEFORMED, BLIND, LAME.

207

tlie teinxiorary right. Louis XL made Paris a sanctuary
ia 1467.

Having once set foot within the sanctuary, the criminal
was sacred ; hut let him beware how he ventured forth :
one step outside his shelter plunged him again in the
billows. The wheel, the gibbet, and the strappado kept
close guard around the place of refuge, and watched their
prey unceasingly, like sharks in a vesseks tvake. Thus
men liave been known to grow gray in a convent, on a
palace staircase, in abbey fields, under a church porch; so
that tlie sanctuary became a prison in all save name.
It sometimes happened that a solemn decree from Parlia-
ment violated the sanctuary, and gave up the criminal to
justice; but this occurrence was rare. The Parliaments
stood in some awe of the bishops; and when cowl and
gown came into collision, the priest usually got the best
of it. Sometimes, however, as in the matter of the assas-
sins of Petit-Jean, the Paris hangman, and in that of
Emery Eousseau, Jean VallerePs murderer, Justice over-
rode the Church, and proceeded to carry out her sen-
tences; but, without an order from Parliament, woe to
him who violated any sanctuary by armed force 1 We
know what fate befell Robert de Clermont, Marshal of
Prance, and Jean de Chalons, Marshal of Champagne;
and yet the case in question was merely that of one
Perrin Marc, a money-changer’s man, a miserable assassin.
But the two marshals broke open the doors of Saint-
Mdry; therein lay the crime.

Such was the veneration felt for these refuges, that,
as tradition goes, it occasionally extended even to ani-

208

NOTRE-DAME.

nials. x4.yraom relates that a stag chased by Dagobert,
having taken refuge near the tomb of Saint Denis/ the
pack stopped short, barking loudly.

Churches had usually a cell prepared to receive sup-
pliants. In 1407 Nicolas Fiamel had built for them
upon the arches of Saint- Jacques de la Boucherie, a
cliaiuber which cost him four pounds six pence sixteen
Palis farthings.

At Notre-Dame it was a cell built over the aisles under
the flying buttresses, on the very spot where the wife of the
present keeper of the towers lias made a garden, which
compares with the hanging gardens of Babylon as a lettuce
with a palm-tree, or a porter's wife with Semiramis.

It was here that Quasimodo had de]:)Osited Esmeralda
after his frantic and triumphal race through the towers
and galleries. While that race lasted, the young girl did
not recover her senses, — half dozing, half waking, con-
scious only of being borne upward through the air,
whether floating or flying, or lifted above the earth by
some unknown power. From time to time she heard
the noisy laughter, the harsh voice of Quasimodo in her
ear. She half opened her eyes ; then beneath her she
saw dimly all Paris dotted with countless roofs of slate
and tiles, like a red, and blue mosaic; above her head
the fearful, grinning face of Quasimodo. Her eyelids
fell; she thought that all was over, that she had been
hanged during her swoon, and that the misshapen spirit
which ruled her destiny had again taken possession of
her and carried her away. She dared not look at him,
but yielded to his sway.

209

DEFORMED, BLIND, LxiME.

But wiieu the breathless and dishevelled belhriiiger laid
her down in the cell of refuge, when she felt his great
hands gently untie the rope which bruised her amis, slie
experienced that sort of shock which wakens with a start
the passengers on a ship that runs aground in the middle
of a dark night. Her ideas awoke too, and returned to
her one by one. She saw that she was still in Fotre-
Uarne ; she remembered being torn from the hangman s
hands; that Phcebus lived,- that Phoebus had ceased to
love her; and these two ideas, one of which lent such
bitterness to the other, presenting themselves simulta-
neously to the poor victim, she turned to Quasimodo, who
stood before her and who terrified her, saying, —

« Why did you save me ? ”

He looked anxiously at her, as if striving to guess what
she said. She repeated her question. He gazed at her
with profound sadness, and fled.

She was amazed.

A few moments later he returned, bringing a packet
which he threw at her feet. It contained clothes left at
the door of the church for her by charitable women.

Then she looked down at herself, saw that she was al-
most naked, and blushed. Life had returned.

Quasimodo appeared to feel something of her shame.
He covered his eye with his broad hand, and again de-
parted, but with lingering steps.

She hastily dressed herself. The garments given her
consisted of a white gown and veil, the dress of a nov-
ice at the Hotel-Dieu, the great hospital managed by nuns.
She had scarcely finished when Quasimodo returned.
roh. II* — 14

210

NOTRE-DAME.

He carried a basket under one arm aiul a mattress under
the other* In the basket were a bottle, a loaf of bread,
and a few other provisions. He set the basket down, and
said, Eat 1 ” He spread the mattress on the floor, and
said, Sleep I ”

It was his own food, his own bed, which the bell-ringer
had brought.

The gypsy lifted her eyes to his face to thank him, but
she could not utter a word. The poor devil was hideous
indeed. She hung her head witli a shudder of fright.

Then he said, —

“ I alarm you. I am very ugly, am I not ? Do not look
at me ; only listen to me. During the day, you must stay
here ; by night, you can walk anywhere about the church ;
but do not leave the church by day or night. You would
be lost. They would kill you, and I should die.''

Moved by his words, she raised her head to reply. He
had vanished. Alone once more, she pondered the strange
words of this almost monstrous being, struck by the sound
of his voice, wliich was so hoarse and yet so gentle.

Then she examined her cell. It was a room of some
six feet square, with a little dormer-window and a door
opening on the slightly sloping roof of flat stones. Va-
rious gutter-spouts in the form of animals seemed bending
over her and stretching their necks to look at her tlirough
the window. Beyond the roof she saw the tops of a
thousand chimneys, from which issued the smoke of all
the fires of Paris. A sad spectacle for tlie poor gypsy girl,
— a foundling, condemned to death, an unhappy creature,
without a country^ without a family, without a hearth.

DEFORMED, BLIND, LAME.

211

Just as the thouglifc of her forlorn condition struck her
more painfully than ever, she felt a hairy, bearded head
rub against her hands and knees. Slie trembled (every-
thing frightened her now) and looked down. It was the
poor goat, tlie nimble Djali, who had escai)ed with her
when Quasimodo scattered Charmolue’s men, and who had
been lavishing caresses on her feet for nearly an liour
without winning a glance. The gypsy girl covered her
with dvisses.

Oh, Djali, ’’ said she, ‘Oiow could I forget you 1 But you
never forget me ! Oh, you at least are not ungrateful ! ”

At the same time, as if an invisible hand had lifted the
weight which had so long held back her tears, she began
to weep ; and as her tears flowmd, she felt the sharpest and
bitterest of lier grief going from her with them.

Wlien evening came, she tliought the night so beautiful,
the moon so soft, that she took a turn in the raised gal-
leiy which surroiuids the church. She felt somewhat re-
freshed by it, the earth seemed to her so peaceful, viewed
from that height.

DEAF.

N ext morning she found on waking that she had
slept. This strange fact amazed her; it was so
long since she had slept ! A bright beam from the rising
sun came in at her window and shone in her face. With
the sun, she saw at the same window an object that
alarmed her, — the unhappy face of Quasimodo. Involun-
tarily she reclosed her eyes, but in vain ; she still seemed
to see through her rosy lids that one-eyed, gap-tootlied,
gnome-like face. Then, still keeping her eyes shut, she
heard a rough voice say very kindly, —

‘'"Don’t be frightened, I am your friend. I came to
see if you were asleep. It does you no harm, does it, if I

DEAF.

213

look at you when you are asleep ? What does it matter
to you if I am here when your eyes are shut ? N'ow I
will go. There, I have hidden myself behind the wall.
You can open your eyes again.”

The tone in which they were uttered was even more
plaintive th^in the words themselves. The gypsy girl,
touched by it, opened . her eyes. He w\as no longer at the
window. She went to it, and sa\v the poor humpback
crouched in a corner of the wall, in a painful and submis-
sive posture. She made an effort to overcome the aver-
sion wdtli which he inspired her. Come here,” said she,
gently. From the motion of her lips, Quasimodo thought
she was ordering him away; he therefore rose and re-
tired, limping slowly, with hanging head, not daring to
raise his despairing eye to the young giiTs face. “ Do
come 1 ” she cried. But he still withdrew. Then she ran
out of her cell, hurried after him, and took his arm.
When he felt her touch, Quasimodo trembled in every
limb. He raised his beseeching eye, and finding that she
drew him towards her, his whole lace beamed with tender-
ness and delight. She tried to make him enter her cell ;
but he persisted in remaining on the threshold. Fo,
no,” said he ; '' the owl must not enter the lark’s nest.”

Then she threw herself gracefully upon her bed, with
the sleeping goat at her feet. For some moments botli
were motionless, silently contemplating, he so much grace,
she so much ugliness. Every moment she discovered
some additional deformity in Quasimodo. Her gaze roved
from his knock knees to his humped back, from his
humped back to his single eye. She could not under-

214

KOTRE-DAME.

stand wliy a being so imperfectly planned slioiiM continue
to exist But withal there was so iniicli melancholy and
so much gentleness about him, that she began to be recon-
ciled to it

He was first to break the silence: “Did you tell me
to come back?” "

She nodded her head, as she said, “Yes.”

He understood her nod. “ Alas ! ” said he, as if loath
to go on, “I am — I am deafi”

“ Poor fellow! ” cried the gypsy, with a look of kindly
pity.

He smiled sadly.

“ You think that I only lacked that, don t you ? Yes,
I am deaf. That's the way I was made. It is horrible,
is n’t it ? And you, — you are so beautiful ! ”

There was so profound a sense of his misery in the
poor wretch’s tone, that she had not the strength to
say a word. Besides, he would not have heard her. He
added : —

“ I never realized ray ugliness till now. When I
compare myself with you, I pity myself indeed, poor
unhappy monster that lain! I must seem to you like
some awful beast, eh ? You, — you are a sunbeam, a drop
of dew, a bird’s song ! As for me, I am something fright-
ful, neither man nor beast, a nondescript object, more
hard, shapeless, and more trodden under foot than a
pebble ! ”

Then he began to laugh, and that laugh was the most
heart-rending thing on earth. He continued : —

“Yes, I am deaf; hut you can speak to me by gestures,

DEAF.

215

by signs. I have a master who talks with me in that
way. And then I shall soon know your wishes from the
motion of your lips, and your expression.’’

'' Well,” she replied, smiling, '' tell me why you saved
me ? ”

He watched her attentively as she spoke.

''I understand,” he answered. “You ask me why I
saved you. You have forgotten a villain "who tried to
carry you off one night, — a villain to whom the very next
day you brought succor upon their infamous pillory. A
drop of water and a little pity are more than my whole
life can ever repay. You have forgotten that villain ; but
he remembers.”

She listened with deep emotion, A tear sparkled in
the bell-ringer’s eye, but it did not fall. He seemed to
make it a point of lionor to repress it.

“Listen,” he resumed, when he no longer feared lest
that tear should flow ; “ we have very tall towers here ;
a man who fell from them w^ould be dead long before he
touched the pavement : whenever it would please you to
have me fall, you need not even say a single word; one
glance will be enough.”

Tiien he rose. This peculiar being, unhappy though the
gypsy was, yet roused a feeling of compassion in her heart.
She signed to him to stay.

“ No, no,” said he, “ I must not stay too long. I am not
at my ease. It is out of pity that you do not turn away
your eyes. I will go where I can see you without your
seeing me. That will be better.”

He drew from his pocket a small metal whistle.

NOTEE-DAME.

‘'There,” said he, ''when you need me, wdien you wish
so to come to you, wdien I do not horrify you too much,
liistle with this. I hear that sound.”

He laid the whistle on the ground, .and fled.

EARTHENWAEE AND CRYSTAL.

O NE day followed another.

Calm gradually returned to Esmeralda's soul.
Excess of. grief, like excess of joy, is a, violent thing,
and of brief duration. The heart of man cannot long
remain at any extreme. The gypsy had sufibred .so
much, that sxxrprise was the only emotion of which she
was now capable. With security, hope had returned.
She was far away from society, far from life, but she
vaguely felt that it might not perhaps be impossible to
return to them. She was like one dead, yet holding in
reserve the key to her tomb.

,. 218 ,

NOTEE-i)AME.

She felt the terrible images which had so long possessed
her fading gradually away. All the hideous phantoms,
Pierrat Torterue, Jacques Charmolue, had vanished from
her mind, — all, even the priest himself.

And then, too, Phoebus lived ; she was sure of it; she
had seen him. To her, the life of Phoibus was all in
all After the series of fatal shocks which had laid waste
her soul, but one thing was left standing, hut one senti-
ment, — her love for the captain. Love is like a tree;
it grows spontaneously, strikes its roots deep into our
whole being, and often continues to flourish over a heart
in ruins.

And the inexplicable part of it is, that the blinder this
passion, the more tenacious it is. It is never stronger
than when it is utterly unreasonable.

Undoubtedly Esmeralda’s thoughts of the captain were
tinged with bitterness. Undoubtedly it was frightful that
he too should have been deceived, he who should have
deemed such a thing impossible, — that he should have
believed the stab to come from her, who would liave given
a thousand lives for him. But, after all, she must not
blame him too severely ; had she not confessed her crime ?
Had she not, weak woman that she was, yielded to tor-
ture ? The fault was wholly hers. She should have let
them tear out every nail rather than wrest a single word
from her. Well, could she but see Phoebus once more, for
one moment only, it would need but a word, a look, to un-
deceive him, to bring him back. She had no doubts in
the matter. She also strove to account to herself for
various strange facts, — for the accident of Phoebus’ pres-

KAP.THENWARK AND CRYSTAL,

210

ence on the day of her doing penance, and for the yoong
girl with whom he was. Probably she was his sister. An
improbable explanation, but one with whicli she contented
herself, because slie must needs believe that Phcebus still
loved her, and loved her alone. Had he not sworn it to
her ? What more did slie want, simple, credulous girl
that she was ? And then, in this business, were not
appearances much more against her than against him ?
Slie therefore waited ; she hoped.

Let us add that the church, that vast clnirch which sur-
rounded Iier on every side, whicli guarded lier, which pre-
served her, was itself a sovereign anodyne. The solemn
lines of its architecture, tlie religious attitude of every
object about the young girl, the calm and pious tbongbts
which were emitted, as it were, from every pore of its
stones, unconsciously acted upon her* Moreover, the
building bad sounds of such majesty and blessing that
they soothed her sick soul. The monotonous chant of the
officiating priests, the people’s response to them, some-
times inarticulate, sometimes thunderous, the harmonious
quiver of the stained-glass windows, the organ loud as the
blast of a hundred trumpets, the three belfries, buzzing
and humming like hives of great bees, — all this orchestra,
with its gigantic gamut perpetually rising and falling,
from the crowd to the bedfry, lulled her memory, her im-
agination, her grief. The bells, particularly, soothed lier.
Those vast machines poured over her broad waves of
mighty magnetism.

Thus, each day’s rising sun found her more composed
breathing better, less pale. As her inward wounds were

220

NOTRE-DAME.

healed, her grace and beauty bloomed again, although
she was more reserved and quiet Her former disposition
also returned, something even of her gayety, her pretty
pout, her love for her goat, her passion for singing, and
her modesty. She was careful to dress herself every
morning in the corner of her cell, lest the inmate of
some neighboring garret should spy her through the
window.

When the thoughts of Phoebus gave her time, the
gypsy sometimes thought of Quasimodo. He was the
only tie, the only bond, the only means of communica-
tion left to her with mankind, with the living. Unliappy
girl I She was even more completely cut off from the
world than Quasimodo.. She could not understand the
strange friend whom chance had given her. She often
reproached herself for not feeling sufficient gratitude to
blind her eyes; but, decidedly, she could not accustom
herself to the poor ringer. ’ He was too ugly.

She had left the whistle which he gave her on the
floor. This did not prevent Quasimodo from appearing
now and then during the first few days. She did her best
not to turn away with too much aversion when he brought
her the basket of food or the jug of water; but he always
noticed the slightest movement of the kind, and would
then go sadly away.

Once he came up just as she was fondling Djali. He
stood for a few moments considering the pretty group
of the girl and goat ; at last he said, shaking his heavy,
clumsy head, —

^ ^^ My misfortune is that I, am still too much like a

EARTHENWARE AND CRYSTAL.

221

human being. I wish I were wholly an animal like
that goat.”

She looked at him in surprise.

He answered her look: —

''Oh, I very well know why.” And he withdrew.

On another occasion he appeared at the door of the cell
(which he never entered) as Esmeralda was singing an
old Spanish ballad, the words of which she did not under-
stand, but which had lingered in her memory because
the gypsies had rocked her to sleep with it wdien a child.
At the sight of his ugly face, coming so suddenly upon
her in the midst of her song, the young girl stopped short,
with an involuntary gesture of alarm. The wretched ringer
fell upon his knees on the door-sill, and clasped his great
misshapen hands with a beseeching air. " Oh,” said he,
sadly, " I pray you, go on, and do not drive me away.”
She was unwilling to pain him, and, trembling though she
was, resumed her song. By degrees, however, her terror
subsided, and she gave herself up entirely to the emotions
aroused by the slow and plaintive music. He remained
on his knees, his hands clasped as if in prayer, attentive,
scarcely breathing, his eyes riveted upon the gypsy’s spark-
ling orbs. He seemed to read her song in her eyes.

Another day he came to her with a timid, awkward air.
" Listen to me” said he with an effort ; " I have something
to tell you.” She signed to him that she was listening.
Then he began to sigh, half opened his lips, seemed just
about to speak, looked at her, shook his head, and retired
slowdy, pressing his hand to his head, leaving the gypsy
utterly amazed.

222 NOTEE-DAME„

Among the grotesque images carved upon the wall,
there was one of which he was particularly fond, and
with which he often seemed to exchange fraternal glances.
The girl once heard him say to it, Oh, why am not I of
stone, like you T'

Finally, one morning Esmeralda ventured out to the
edge of the roof, and looked into the square over the steep
top of Saint- Jean le Rond. Quasimodo stood behind lier.
He stationed himself there to spare the girl as far as
possible the annoyance of seeing him. All at once slie
started, a tear and a Hash of joy shone together in her
eyes. She knelt on the edge of the roof, and stretched
out her arms in anguish towards the square, crying,

PhoBbus I Come I Come I One word, only one word,
for the love of Heaven! Phoebus! Phoebus!” Her
voice, her face, her gesture, her whole person, wore the
heart-rending expression of a shipwrecked mariner mak-
ing signals of distress to a ship sailing merrily by in the
distance, lit up by a sunbeam on the horizon,

Quasimodo bent over the parapet, and saw that the ob-
ject of tins frenzied entreaty was a young nmn, a captain,
a handsome knight, glittering with arms and ornaments,
who pranced and cuiweted through the square on horse-
back, waving his plumed helmet to a lovely damsel
smiling from her balcony. However, the oflicer did not
hear the unhappy giii’s appeal ; he was too far away.

But the poor deaf man heard it. A deep sigh heaved
his breast ; he turned away ; his heart swelled with sup-
pressed tears ; his clenched fists beat his bro\v, and when

EARTHENWARE AND CRYSTAL.

223

he withdrew them, each of them grasped a handful of red
hair.

Tile gypsy paid no heed to him. He gnashed his teeth,
and muttered, —

'' Damnation 1 So that is how one should look I One
only needs a handsome outside !

Meantime, she remained on her knees, crying with great
agitation, —

'' Oh, now he is dismounting from his horse ! He is
going into that house! Phoebus! ,He does not hear!
PhcBbus ! How cruel of that woman to talk to him at
the same time that I do ! Phoebus ! Phoebus ! ”

The deaf man watched her. He understood her panto-
mime. The poor bell-ringer’s eyes filled with tears, but
he did not let a single one flow. All at once he plucked
her gently by the hem of her sleeve. She turned. He
had assumed a tranquil air, and said, —

“Shall I go and fetch him?”

She uttered a cry of joy.

“ Oh, go 1 go ! run, quick ! that captain ! that captain ;
bring him to me I I will love you ! ”

She clasped his knees. He could not help shaking his
head sadly.

“I will bring him to you,” said he in a faint voice.
Then he turned his head and hurried quickly down the
stairs, choked with sobs.

When he reached the square, he saw nothing but the
fine horse tied to the post at the door of the Gondelaurier
house ; the captain had already entered.

^224

NOTRE-BAME.

He raised liis eyes to the roof of the churclL Esmeralda
was still in the same place, in the same position. He
shook his head sorrowfully, then leaned against one of the
posts before the Gondelaurier porch, determined to await
the captaiifs coming.

Witliin tlie house, it was one of those gala days which
precede a wedding. Quasimodo saw many people go in,
and none come out. From time to time he looked up
at the roof; the gypsy girl was as motionless as he. A
groom came, unfastened the horse, and led him into the
stable.

The whole day passed thus, — Quasimodo against the
pillar, Esmeralda on the roof, Phoebus, doubtless, at the
feet of Fleur-de-Lys.

At last night came, — a moonless night, a dark night.
In vain Quasimodo fixed his eyes upon Esmeralda ; she
soon ceased to be anything more than a white spot in the
dusk ; then she vanished. Everything faded out ; all was
dark,

Quasimodo saw the front windows of the Gondelaurier
mansion lighted up from top to bottom ; he saw the other
windows on the square lighted, one by one ; he also saw
the lights, extinguished to the very last, for he remained
at his post all the evening. The officer did not come out.
When the latest passers had gone home, when all the
windows in the other houses were black, Quasimodo was
left entirely alone, entirely in the darkness. There were
no street lamps in the Parvis then.

But the windows of the Gondelaurier house remained

EAKTHENWARE AND CRYSTAL.

225

lighted, even after midnight. Quasimodo, motionless and
alert, saw countless moving, dancing shadows pass across
the rnany-colored panes. If he had not been deaf, as the
noise of sleeping Paris ceased, he would have heard more
and more distinctly, within the house, the sounds of
revelry, music and laughter.

About one o’clock in the morning the guests began to
go. Quasimodo, wrapped in darkness, watched them as
they passed beneath the porch bright with torches. The
captain was not among them.

He was filled with sad thouglits ; at times he looked up
into the air, as if tired of waiting. Great, black, heavy
clouds, torn and ragged, hung like masses of crape from
the starry arch of night. They seemed like the cobwebs
of the vaulted sky.

In one of these upward glances he suddenly saw
the long window of the balcony whose stone balustrade
was just over his head, mysteriously open. Two persons
passed out through the glass door, closing it noiselessly
behind them ; they were a man and a woman. It was not
without some difficulty that Quasimodo succeeded in rec-
ognizing in the man the handsome captain ; in the woman,
the young lady whom he had that morning seen wave a
welcome to the officer from that self-same balcony. The
square was perfectly dark, and a double crimson cur-
tain, which fell again behind the door as it closed, scarce-
ly permitted a ray of light from the room to reach th^
balcony.

The young man and the girl, as far as our deaf man

226

NOTBE-DAME.

could judge without hearing a single one of their words,
seemed to give themselves up to a very tender tete-a-tetc.
The young girl had apparently allowed the officer to en-
circle her waist with his arm, and was making a feeble
resistance to a kiss.

Quasimodo looked on from below at this scene, winch
was all the more attractive because it was not meant to
be seen. He beheld that happiness and beauty with bitter-
ness. After all, nature \vas not mute in the poor devil,
and his spinal column, wretchedly crooked as it was, was
quite as susceptible of a thrill as that of any other man.
He reflected on the miserable part which Providence had
assigned him ; that woman, love, pleasure, were forever to
pass before him, while he could never do more than look
on at the happiness of others. But what pained him most
in this sight, what added indignation to his annoyance,
was the thought of what the gypsy must suffer could she
see it. True, the night was very dark ; Esmeralda, if she
had remained at lier post (which he did not doubt), was
very far away, and it was all he could do himself, to
distinguish the lovers on the balcony. This comforted
him.

Meantime, their conversation became more and more
animated. The young lady seemed to be entreating the
officer to ask no more of her. Quasimodo could only
make out her fair clasped hands, her smiles blent witli
^ears, her upward glances, and the eyes of the captain
eagerly bent upon her.

Luckily — for the young giiTs struggles were growing

EAETHENWAEE AND CRYSTAL.

227

feebler — the balcony door was suddenly reopened, and an
old lady appeared ; the beauty seemed confused, the officer
wore a disappointed air, and all three re-entered the house.
A moment later a horse was pawing the ground at the
door, and the brilliant officer, wrapped in his cloak,
passed qiiicldy by Quasimodo.

The ringer let him turn the corner of the street, then
ran after him with his monkey-like agility, shouting :

Hollo there ! Captain ! ”

The captain stopped.

“ What can that rascal want ? said he, seeing in the
shadow the ungainly figure limping quickly towards him.

Meantime Quasimodo caught up with him, and boldly
seized the horse by the bridle : —

''Follow me, captain; there is some one here who
wishes to speak with you.’'

" The devil!” muttered Phoebus, " here 's an ugly scare-
crow whom I think I 've seen elsewhere. Hollo, sirrah !
will you let my horse’s bridle go ? ”

" Captain,” replied the deaf man, "don’t, you even ask
who it is ? ”

" I tell you to let my horse go ! ” impatiently replied
PhoGbus. "What does the fellow mean by hanging to
my charger’s chamfron thus ? Do you take my horse for
a gallows ? ”

Quasimodo, far from loosing his hold on the bridle, was
preparing to turn the horse’s head in the opposite direc-
tion. Unable to understand the captain’s resistance, he
made haste to say, —

228 .

NOTEE-DAME.

Come, captain, it is a woman who awaits yon/' He
added with an effort: “A woman who loves yon."

''Arrant knave I" said the captain; "do you think I
am obliged to go to all the women who love me, or say
they do ? And how if by chance she looks like you, you
screech-owl ? Tell her who sent you that I am about to
many, and that she may go the devil 1 ”

" Hear me !" cried Quasimodo, supposing that with one
word he could conquer his liesitation ; " come, my lord !
it is the gypsy girl, whom you know ! "

These words did indeed make a strong impression upon
Phoebus, but not of the nature wdiich the deaf man,, ex-
pected. It will be remembered that our gallant officer
retired with Heur-de-Lys some moments before Quasi-
modo rescued the prisoner from the hands of Charmolue.
Since then, during his visits to the Gondelaurier house
he had carefully avoided all mention of the woman, whose
memory was painful to liim ; and, on her side, Fleur-de-
Lys had not thought it politic to tell him that the gypsy,
still lived. Phcebiis therefore supposed poor " Similar " to
have died some two or three months before. Let us add
that for some moments past the captain had been pondering
on the exceeding darkness of the night, the supernatural
ugliness and sepulchral tones of the strange messenger, the
fact that it was long past midnight, that the street was as
deserted as on the night when the goblin monk addressed
him, and that his horse snorted at the sight of Quasimodo.

" The gypsy girl I " he exclaimed, almost terrified ; " pray,
do you come from tlie other world ? ”

" EARTHENWARE AND CRYSTAL. 229

And lie placed his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

''Quick! quick!’' said the deaf man, striving to urge
on the horse ; "this way !”

Phcebus dealt him a vigorous kick.

Quasimodo’s eye flashed. He made a inoveinent
to. attack the captain. Then drawing himself up, he
said, —

"Oh, how fortunate it is for you that there is some
one who loves you ! ”

He emphasized the words some one^ imd releasing the
horse’s bridle, added, —

"Begone!”

Phoebus clapjied spurs to his horse, with an oath.
Quasimodo saw him plunge down the street and disap-
pear in the darkness.

" Oh,” murmured the poor deaf man, " to refuse that ! ”

He returned to Notre-Dame, lighted his lamp, and
climbed the tower. As he had supposed, the gypsy was
still in the same place.

As soon as she caught sight of him, she ran to meet
him.

"Alone!” she cried mournfully, clasiiing her lovely
hands.

" I could not find him,” said Quasimodo, coldly.

" You should have waited all night,” she rej)lied
indignantly.

He saw her angry gesture, and understood the reproach.

" I will watch better another time,” *said he, hanging
his head.

230

NOTBE-DAME.

Go I said slie.

He left lier. She was offended with him. He would
rather be maltreated by her than distress her. He kept
ail the pain for Iiimself.

From that day forth the gypsy saw him no more.
He ceased to visit her cell. At most, she sometimes
caught a glimpse of the ringer on the top of a tower,
gazing sadly at her. But as soon as she saw him, he
disappeared.

We must own that she was but little troubled by this
wilful absence of the poor hunchback. In her secret
heart she thanked him for it. However, Quasimodo did
not lie under any delusion on this point.

She no longer saw him, but she felt the presence of
a good genius around her. Her provisions were renewed
by an invisible hand while she slept. One morning
she found a cage of birds on her window-sill. Over
her cell there was a piece of carving which alarmed
her. She had more than once shown this feeling before
Quasimodo. One morning (for all these things occurred
at night) she no longer saw it ; it was broken off. Any
one who had clambered up to it must have risked his
life.

Sometimes, in the evening, she heard a voice, hidden
behind the wind-screen of the belfry, sing as if to lull
her to sleep, — a weird, sad song, verses without rhyme,
such as a deaf person might make : —

‘‘ Heed Sot the face, ,

Maiden, heed the heart.

The heart of a fine young man is oft deformed.

There are hearts where hove finds no abiding-place.

EARTllENWAKE AND CRYSTAL.

231

“Maiden, the pine-tree is not fair,

Not fair as is the poplar-tree,

But its leaves are green in winter bare.

“ Alas I why do I tell you this ?

Beauty alone has right to live ;

Beauty can only beauty love,

April her back doth turn on January.

Beauty is perfect,

Beauty wins all,

Beauty alone is lord of all. '

“ The raven only flies by day,

The owl by night alone doth fly,

The swan by day and night alike may fly.”

One morning, on waking, slie saw at her window two
vases full of flowers. One was a very beautiful and
brilliant but cracked crystal vase. It had let the water
'with which it was filled escape^ and the flowers which
it held were withered. The other was an earthen jug,
coarse and common ; but it had retained all its water,
and the flowers were fresli and rosy.

I do not know whether it was done purpo§ely, but
Esmeralda took the withered nosegay, and wore it all
day ill her bosom.

That day she did not hear the voice from the tower
singing.

She cared but little. She passed her days in fondling
Djali, in watching the door of the Gondelaiirier house,
in talking to herself about Phoebus, and in scattering
crumbs of bread to the swallows.

She had entirely ceased to see or hear Quasimodo ;
the poor ringer seemed to have vanished from the church,

NOTEB-DAME.

But one night, when she could not sleeii, and was think-
ing of her handsome captain, she lieard a sigh close by
her cell. Terrified, she rose, and saw by the light of
the moon a shapeless mass lying outside across her door.
It was Quasimodo sleeping there upon the stones.

THE KEY TO THE POllTE-KOUGE,

M eantime, public rumor had informed the arch-
deacon of the miraculous manner in which the
gypsy had been saved. When he learned of it, he knew
not what he felt. He had accepted the fact of Esme-
ralda’s death. In this way, he made himself perfectly
easy ; he had sounded the utmost depths of grief. The
human heart (Don Claude had mused upon these matters)
can hold but a certain quantity of despair. When the
sponge is thoroughly soaked, the sea may pass over it
without adding another drop to it.

234

NOTRE-DAME.

Kow, Esmeralda being dead, the sponge was soaked.
Everything was over for Don Claude in this world. But
to know that she was alive, and Phoebus too, was to
endure afresh the torments, shocks, and vicissitudes of
life; and Claude was weary of them all.

When he heard this piece of news, he shut himself
up in his cloister cell. He did not appear at the chapter
meetings or the sacred offices. He barred his door against
every one, even the bishop, and remained thus immured
for several weeks. He was supposed to be ill, and in-
deed was so.

What did he do in his seclusion ? With what thoughts
was the unfortunate man battling ? Was he waging a
final conflict with his terrible passion ? Was he plotting
a final plan to kill her and destroy himself ?

His Jehan, his adored brother, his spoiled child, came
once to his door, knocked, swore, entreated, repeated his
name half a score of times. Claude would not open.

He passed whole days with his face glued to his window-
panes. Erom this window, in the cloisters as it was, he
could seC’ Esmeralda’s cell. He often saw herself, with
her goat, — sometimes with Quasimodo. He noticed the at-
tentions of the ugly deaf man, — his obedience, his refined
and submissive manners to the gypsy. He recalled — for
he had a good memory, and memory is the plague of the
jealous, — he recalled the bell-ringer’s strange look at the
dancer on a certain evening. He asked himself what
motive could have led Quasimodo to save her. He wit-
nessed countless little scenes between the girl and the
deaf man, when their gestures, seen from a distance and

THE KEY TO THE PORTE-KOHGE.

235

commented on by his j)assion, struck him as \'ery tender.
He distrusted women's whims. Then he vaguely felt
awakening within him a jealousy such as he had never
imagined possible; — a jealousy wliich made him blush
with rage and shame. 'T was bad enough when it was
the captain ; but this fellow ! " The idea overwhelmed
him.

His nights were frightful. Since he knew the gypsy
girl to be alivC; the chill fancies of spectres and tombs
which had for an entire day beset him, had vanished; and
the flesh again rose in revolt against the spirit. He
writhed upon his bed at the idea that the dark-skinned
damsel was so near a neighbor.

Every night his fevered imagination pictured Esmeralda
in all those attitudes which had stirred his blood most
quickly. He saw her stretched across the body of the
wounded captain, her eyes closed, her beautiful bare
throat covered with Phoebus* blood, at that moment of
rapture when he liimself had pressed upon her pale lips
that kiss which had burned the unhappy girl, half dead
though she was, like a living coal. He again saw her
disrobed by the savage hands of the executioners, ex-
posing and enclosing in the buskin with its iron screws
her tiny foot, her plump and shapely leg, and her white
and supple knee. • He again saw that ivory knee alone
left uncovered by Torterue’s horrid machine. Finally, he
figured to himself the young girl in her shift, the rope
about her neck, her shoulders bare, her feet bare, almost
naked, as he saw her on what was to have been her
last day on earth. These voluptuous pictures made him

236

NOTRE-DAME.

clench his hands, and caused a shudder to run from head
"to'fbot. "

One niglit, especially, they so cruelly heated his virgin
and priestly blood that he bit his pillow, leaped from his
bed, threw a surplice over his shirt, and left his cell, lamp
in hand, but half-dressed, wild aud haggard, with flaming
e}’es.

He knew where to find the key to the Porte-Eouge,
which led frorn tlie cloisters to the church, and he always
carried about him, as the reader knows, a key to the tower
stairs.

THE KEY TO THE PORTE-
ROUGE {C-ontimieA') .

— a bird's sleep.. A mere

trifle roused her. She opened her eyes. The night was
very dark. Still, she saw a face peering in at the window ;
the vision was lighted up by a lamp. When this face saw
that Esmeralda was looking at it, it blew out the lamp.
Still, the girl had had time to catch a glimpse of it ; her
eyes closed in terror.

238 .

KOl'RE-BAME.

Oh,” said slie, in a feeble voice, the priest 1 ”

All her past misery flashed upon her with lightning
speed. She sank back upon her bed, frozen with fear.

A moment after, she felt a touch which made her shud-
der so that she started up wide awake and furious.

The priest had glided to her side. He clasped her in
his arms.

She tried to scream, but could not.

'' Begone, monster 1 Begone, assassin ! ” she said at last,
in a low voice trembling with wrath and horror.

''Mercy! mercy!” murmured tlie priest, pressing his
lips to her shoulders.

She seized his bald head in both hands by the hairs
which remained, and strove to prevent his kisses as if they
had been bites.

“ Mercy 1 ” repeated the unfortunate man. " If you knew
what my love for you is ! It is fire, molten lead, a thou-
sand knives driven into my heart!”

And he held her arms with superhuman strength. She
cried desperately: ‘^Eelease me, or I sliall spit in your
face!”

He released her. “ Degrade me, strike me, do your
worst I do what you will I but have mercy ! love me 1 ”

Then she struck him with the impotent fury of a
cliild. Slie clenclied lier lovely hands to bruise his face.
“ Demon, begone ! ”

" Love me ! love me ! have pity ! ” cried the poor priest,
clasping her, and returning her blows with caresses.

All at once she felt him stronger than she.

" No more of this ! ” he exclaimed, gnashing his teeth.

THE KEY TO THE PORTE-ROITGE.

239

She lay conquered, crushed, and quivering in his arms,
at his mercy. She felt a wanton hand wandering over
her. She made one last effort, and sluieked : '' Help !
help ! a vampire 1 a vampire !

Ho one came. Djali alone was awakened, and bleated
piteously.

Silence 1 said the panting priest.

Suddenly, in her struggle, as she fought upon the floor,
the gypsy's hand encountered something cold and metal-
lic. It was Quasimodo’s whistle. She seized it with a
convulsion of hope, raised it to her lips, and blew with all
her remaining strength. The whistle gave forth a sharp,
shrill, piercing sound.

“What is that ?” said the priest.

Almost as he spoke he felt himself grasped by a vigorous
arm. The cell was dark ; he could not distiugui»h exactly
who held him ; but he heard teeth chattering with rage,
and there was just enough light mingled with the dark-
ness for him to see the broad blade of a cutlass gleam
above his head.

He thought he recognized the figure of Quasimodo. He
supposed that it could he no other. He remembered hav-
ing stumbled, as lie entered, over a bundle lying across the
outside of the door. But as the new-comer did not utter
a word, he knew not what to think. lie flung himself
upon the arm which held the cutlass, crying : “ Quasi-
modo ! ” He forgot, in this moment of distress, that
Quasimodo was deaf.

In the twinkling of an eye the priest was stretched on
the floor, and felt a heavy knee pressed against his breast.

.240

NOTRE-DAMT3.

By the angular imprint of that laiee, he knew Quasimodo ;
but what was he to do ? How was he also to be recog-
nized by the hunchback? Night made the deaf man blind.

He was lost. The young girl, pitiless as an eiiraged
tigress, did not interpose to save him. The cutlass came
nearer his head; it was a critical moment. All at once
his adversary appeared to hesitate.

''No blood upon her I” said he, in a dull voice.

It was indeed the voice of Quasimodo.

Then tlie priest felt a huge hand drag him from the cell
by the heels ; he was not to die within those walls. Luck-
ily for him, the moon had risen some moments before.

When they crossed the threshold, its pale rays fell upon
the priest. Quasimodo looked him in the face, trembled,
relaxed his hold, and shrank back.

The gypsy, who had advanced to the door of her
cell, saw with surprise that the actors had suddenly
changed parts. It was now the priest who threatened,
and Quasimodo who implored.

The priest, who was overwhelming the deaf man with
gestures of wrath and reproach, violently signed to him to
withdraw.

The deaf man bowed his head, then knelt before the
gypsy’s door. "My lord,” said he, in grave, submissive
tones, "do what you will afterwards; but kill me first.”

So saying, he offered his cutlass to the priest. The
priest, beside himself with rage, rushed upon him. But
the young girl was quicker than he. She tore the knife
from Q,uasimodo’s hands, and uttered a frenzied laugh.

"Approach now!” she cried.

, / V

242

NOTRE-DAME.

She held tlie blade high above her head. The prieRt.
stood irresolute. She would certainly have struck.

You dare not touch me now, coward ! she exclaimed.

Then she added with a pitiless look, and knowing that
lier words would pierce the priest's heart like a thousand
red-hot irons, —

“ Ah ! 1 know that Phoebus is not dead 1 ’’

The priest threw Quasimodo to the ground with a kick,
and rushed down the stairs quivering with rage.

When he had gone, Quasimodo picked up the whistle
which had just saved the gypsy.

'' It was getting rusty,” said he, returning it to her; then
he left lier alone.

The young girl, overcome by this violent scene, fell ex-
hausted on her bed and burst into a flood of tears. Her
horizon was again becoming overcast.

The priest, on his side, groped his way back to his cell.

That was sufficient. Don Claude was jealous of
Quasimodo.

He repeated musingly the fatal words : '' Ko one else
shall have her I”

BOOK TENTH

fiRTNGOIKE HAS SEVERAL CAPITAL IDEAS IN SUC-
CESSION IN THE RUE DES BERNAE.DINS,

'\^7HEN' Pierre Gringoire saw the turn winch this
^ » wliole matter was taking, and that a rope, hang-
ing, and other unpleasant things must certainly ho the
fate of the chief actors in the play, he no longer cared to

: 244 :

NOTBE-BAME,

meddle with it. The Vagrants, with whom he remained,
considering that after all they were the best company to be
found ill Paris, — the Vagrants still retained their interest
in the gypsy. He thought this very natural on the part
of people who, like her, had no prospect but Cliarniolue
and Torterue to which to look forward, and who did not,
like liim, roam through the realms of imagination upon
the wings of Pegasus. He leariied from their conversation
that his bride of the broken jug had taken refuge in
ISTotre'Dame, and he was very glad of it ; but he felt no
temptation to visit her. He sometimes wondered what
had become of the little goat, and that was all. In the
daytime he performed feats of juggling for a living, and at
night he wmiight out an elaborate memorial against the
Bisliop of Paris ; for he remembered being drenched by
his mill-wlieels, and he bore him a grudge for it. He
also busied himself with comments on that fine work by
Baudry-Ie-Ptouge, Bisliop of Koyon and Tournay, entitled
'' De mtpa fdrcmiml" which had inspired him with an
ardent taste for architecture, — a fancy which had re-
placed in las heart the passion for liermetics, of which
indeed it was but a natural corollary, since there is a
close connection between liermetics and masonry. Grin-
goire had turned from the love of an idea to love of the
substance.

One day he halted near Saint-Germain-rAiixerrois, at
the corner of a building known as For-rEveque,^ which
faces another known as For-le-Roi.^ This For-Ffiv^qiie
contained a charming fourteenth-century chapel, the chan-

1 Bishop's Court. 2 King’s Court.

GRINGOIRE HAS SEVERAL CAPlTxVL IDEAS. 245

cel of wliicb. looked toward the street. Gringoire was de-
voutly studying the outside carvings. He was enjoying
one of those moments of selfish, exclusive, supreme pleas-
ure, during which the artist sees nothing in the world but
art, and sees the world in art. All at once he felt a
hand laid heavily on his shoulder. He turned. It 'was
his former friend, his former master, the archdeacon.

He was astounded. It was a long time since he had
seen the archdeacon, and Don Claude was one of tliose
solemn and impassioned men a meeting with whom
always upsets the equilibrium of a sceptic philosopher.

The archdeacon was silent for some moments, during
which Gringoire had leisure to observe him. He found
Don Claude greatly changed, — pale as a winter morning,
hollow-eyed, his hair almost white. The priest at last
broke the silence, saying in a calm but icy tone, —
How are you, Master Pierre ?

“ As to my health ? answered Gringoire. Well, well 1
I may say I am tolerably robust, upon the whole. I take
everything in moderation. You know, master, the secret
of good health, according to Hippocrates: 'Id est: ciM,
potuSj somni, veoius, omnia moderata sintl

" Then you have nothing to trouble you, Master
Pierre ? ” replied the archdeacon, looking fixedly at
Gringoire.

Fo, by my faith!”

'' And what are you doing now ? ”

“ You see, master, I am examining the cutting of these
stones, and the style in which that bas-relief is thrown
out.”

24 :(]

NOTKE-BAME.

Tlie priest smiled a bitter saiile, wliicli only lifted one
comer of Ids mouth.

"'And does that amuse you?”

“It is Paradise!” exclaimed Griiigoire. And bending
ever the sculptures vvitli tlie ravislied mien of a deinom
strator of living phenomenay he added : “ For instance, don’t
you think that inetainorphosis in low-relief is carved with
exceeding skill, refinementy and patience ? Just look at
this little column. Around what capital did you ever see
foliage more graceful or more daintily chiselled ? Here
are three of Jean Mailleviii’s alto-relievos. They are not
the finest works of that great genius. Still, the ingenu-
ousness, the sweetness of the faces, the careless ease of
the attitudes and draperies, and that inexplicable ctiarni
which is mingled with all their defects, make these tiny
figures most delicate and delightful, perluips almost too
much so. Don’t you think this is entertaining?”

“ Yes, indeed!” said the priest.

“ And if you could only see the inside of the chapel ! ”
continued the poet, with his garrulous enthusiasm. Carv-
ings everywliere, crowded as close as tlie leaves in tlie
lieart of a cabbage! The chancel is fasliioned most de-
voutly, and is so peculiar that 1 have never seen its like
elsewhere I ”

Don Claude interrupted him, —

So you are happy ? ”

Gringoire eagerly replied, —

'^Yes, on my honor ! At first I loved women, then
animals ; now I love stones. They are quite as amusing
as animals or women, and they are less treaclierous.”

GRINGOIRE B.AB SEVERAL CAPITAL IDEAS. 247

The priest pressed his hand to his head. It was his
habitual gesture.

“Indeed?”

Stay ! ” said Griugoire ; '' you shall see my pleasures ! ”
He took the arm of the unresisting priest, and led hiin
into the staircase turret of For-rEveqiie. “There’s a
staircase for you ! Every time I see it I am happy. It is
the simplest and yet the rarest . in Paris. Every step is
bevelled underneath. Its beauty and simplicity consist
in the treads, whicl), for a foot or more in width, are inter-
laced, mortised, dovetailed, jointed, linked together, and set
into one another in a genuinely solid and goodly way,”

“ And you desire nothing more ? ”

“ No.”

“ And you have no regrets ? ”

“ Neither regret nor desire. I have arranged my mode
of life.”

“What man arranges,” said Claude, “circumstances
disarrange.”

“ I am a Pyrrhonian philosopher,” replied Gringoire,
“and I keep everything equally balanced.”

“ And how do you earn your living ? ”

“I still write occasional epics and tragedies; but what
brings me in the most, is that trade which you have seen
me follow, master,— namely, upholding pyramids of chairs
in my teeth.”

“ That is a sorry trade for a philosopher.”

“Tis keeping up an equilibrium all the same,” said
Gringoire. “ When one has but a single idea he finds it
in everything.”

248

IvlOTKE-IUME.

1 know tliat ! ” responded the arclideacon.

After a pause lie added, —

And yet you are poor enough ? ”

“Poor! Yes; but not unhappy.”

At this instant the sound of horses’ hoofs was Jieard,
and our two friends saw a company of archers belonging
to the king’s -ordnance file by at the end of the street,
with raised lances, and an officer at their head. The
cavalcade was a brilliant one, and clattered noisily over
the pavement.

“ How you stare at that officer ! ” said Gringoire to the
archdeacon.

“ Because I think I have seen him before.”

What is his name ? ”

“ 1 believe,” said Claude, “ that his name is Phrebus de
Chateaupers.”

“Pheebus! a queer name I There is also a Pheebus,
Count de Foix, I once knew a girl who never swore save
by Pheebus.”

“ Come with me,” said the priest. “ I have something
to say to you.”

Ever since the troops passed by, some agitation was ap-
parent beneath the icy exterior of the archdeacon. He
walked on ; Gringoire followed, accustomed to obey him,
like all who ever approached that man full of such as-
cendency. They reached the Eue des Bernardins in si-
lence, and found it quite deserted. Here Don Claude
paused.

“What have you to tell me, master ? ” asked Gringoire.

“ Don’t you think/’ replied the archdeacon, with a most

GRINGOIEE HAS SEVERAL CAPITAL IDEAS. 249

reHectivo aiiv^' that the dress of those horseiiieii w hum we
just saw is far handsomer than yours and mine ?

Gringoire shook his head.

“ r faith 1 I like my red and yellow jacket better than
those scales of steel and iron. What pleasure can there
he in making as much noise when you walk as the Quai
de la Ferraille in an earthquake?’'

“ Tlieii, Gringoire, you never envied those fine fellows in
their warlike array ? ”

'' Envied them what. Sir Archdeacon, — their strength,
their armor, or their discipline ? Philosopliy and inde-
pendence in rags are fer preferable, I would ratlier be
the head of a fly than the tail of a lion.”

"That’s strange,” said the priest, meditatively. "And
yet a handsome uniform is a fine thing.”

Gringoire, seeing that he was absorbed in thought, left
him in order to admire the porch of a neighboring house.
He came back clapping his hands.

" If you were not so absorbed in the fine uniforms of
those soldiers. Sir Archdeacon, I would beg you to take a
look at tliat door. I always said that my lord Aubry’s
house had the most superb entrance in the world.”

" Pierre Gringoire,” said the archdeacon, " what have
you done with that little gypsy dancer ? ”

“ Esmeralda ? What a sudden change of subject ! ”

" Was she not your wife ? ”

" Yes, by means of a broken jug. We are married for
four years. By the way,” added Gringoire, regarding the
archdeacon with a half-bantering air, " are you still think-
ing of her ? ”

250

NOTEE-DAME.

“ And you, — do you think of her no longer ? ''

“ Seldom. I have so many other things to occupy me.
Heavens I how pretty that little goat of hers was I ’’

'' Did not the girl save your life ? ”

‘‘ She did indeed, by Jupiter ! ”

^AVell, what has become of her ? What have you done
with her '{ ”

I can’t say. I fancy that they hanged her.”

“ You really think so ? ”

'' Ihn not sure of it. When I saw that they had taken
to hanging people, I withdrew from the game.”

“ Is that all you know about the matter ? ”

Stay. I was told that she had taken refuge in ISTotre-
Daine, and tliat she was in safety there, and lam delighted
to hear it ; and I can’t find out whether the goat was saved
along with her. And that ’s all I know about; it.” ^

“111 tell you more,” cried Don Claude ; and his voice,
hitherto so low, slow, and almost muffled, became as loud
as tlniiider. “ She did indeed take refuge in ISrotre-Dame.
But within three days justice will again overtake her,
aiid she will be hanged upon the Grbve. Parliament has
issued a decree.”

“ That ’s a pity 1 ” said Gringoire.

The priest, in the twinkling of an eye, had recovered his
coldness and calm.

“And who the devil,” resumed the poet, “has amused
himself by soliciting an order of restitution ? Why could
n’t he have left Parliament in peace? Wliat harm does it
do if a poor girl takes shelter under the flying buttresses
of Notre- Dame, alongside of the; swallows' nests ?”

GIUNGOIEE HAS SEVERAL CAPITAL IDEAS. 251

There are Satans in the woiid/’ replied the archdeacon.
'' That ’s a devilish bad job,” observed Griiigoire.

The archdeacon resumed, after a pause, —

" So she saved your life ? ”

" from my good friends the Vagrants. A little more,
or a little less, and I should have been hanged. They
would be very sorry for it now.”

"Don’t you- want to do anything to help her ? ”

" With all my heart, Don Claude ; but what if I should
get myself into trouble ? ”

" What would that matter ? ”

" What ! what would it matter ? How kind you are,
master ! I have two great works but just begun.”

The priest struck his forehead. In spite of his feigned
calmness, an occasional violent gesture betrayed his in-
ward struggles.

" How is she to be saved ? ”

Gringoire said : " Master, I might answer, ' II pacldt^
wiiich is Turkish for, ' God is our hope. ’ ”

" How is she to be saved ? ” dreamily repeated the
archdeacon.

Gringoire in his turn clapped his hand to his head.

" See here, master, I have a lively imagination ; I will
devise various expedients. Suppose the king were asked
to pardon her ? ”

" Louis XI., — to pardon ! ”

"Why not?”

" As well try to rob a tiger of his bone 1 ”

Gringoire set to work to find some fresh solution of the
difficulty.

,.252'

NOTEE-DAME.

“ Well 1 — stop 1 — Do you want me to draw up a peti-
tion to the mid wives declaring tlie girl to be pregnant ? ”

This made the priest’s hollow eye tiash.

Pregnant, villain 1 do you know anything about it ? ”

Griiigoire was terrified by Ins expression. He made
haste to say, ‘‘Oh, no, not I! our marriage was a true
farlsmarUafjiiim, I was entirely leit out But at any
rate, we should gain time.”

Folly I infamy I be silent ! ”

“ You arc wrong to be so vexed/’ grumbled Gringoire.
“ Wo should gain time; it would do no one any harm,
and the midwives, wiio are poor women, would earn forty
Paris pence.”

The priest paid no attention to him.

“ And yet she must be got away ! ” he muttered. “ The
order will be executed within three days 1 Besides^ even
if there were no order; that Quasimodo! Women have
very depraved tastes I ” He raised his voice : “ Master
Pierre, I have considered it well ; there ’s hut one means
of salvation for her.”

“ What is it '? I, for rny part, see none.”

“ Listen, Master Pierre, and remember that you owe
your life to her. I will frankly tell you my idea. The
church is watched night and day, Ho one is allowed to
come out but those who are seen to go in. Therefore, you
can go in. You will come, and I will take you to her.
You will cliange clothes with her. She will put on your
doublet; you will put oil her gown.”

“So far, so, good,” remarked the philosopher. “What

GRINGOIRE HAS SEVERAL CAPITAL IDEAS. 253

'' What next ? She will walk out in your clothcH ; you
will stay behind in hers. Perhaps they may hang you^
but she will be saved,”

254 :'

IS'OTRE^DAME.

At Don Claude’s unexpected proposition, the poet’s be-
nign and open face had suddenly darkened, like a smiling
Italian landscape when some fatal blast sweeps a cloud
across the sun.

Well, Gringoire, what do you say to the plan ? ”

I say, master, that they would not hang me
but they would hang me without the slightest doubt.”

That does not concern us ! ”

“ Tlie deuce ! ” said Gringoire.

She saved your life. You would only be paying your
debt.”

“ There are plenty of others whicli I have not paid.”
Master Pierre, it absolutely must be done.”

The archdeacon spoke with authority.

'' Listen to me, Don Claude,” replied the dismayed poet.
“ You cling to that idea, and you are wrong, I don’t see
why I should be hanged in another person’s stead.”

'' What makes you so fond of life ? ”

Oil, a thousand tilings ! ”

What are they, if you please ?”

What ?, The air^, the sky, morning and evening, moon-
light, my good friends the Vagabonds, our larks with the
girls, the architectural beauties of Paris to study, three
big books to write, — one, of which is directed against the
bishop and his mills, — and I know not what else, Anax-
agoras said that he came into the world to admire the
sun ; and besides, I have the pleasure of spending all my
days, from morning till night, with a man of genius, to
wit, myself and that is a mighty .agreeable thing.”
Piattle-pate ! ” muttered the archdeacon, “ Well, speak ;

: GKINGOIRE HAS SEVERAL: CAPITAL IDEAS, ' 25:5

who preserved that life of yours which you so d
fill? To whom do you owe it that you still breathe this
air, behold that sky, and are still able to amuse your
feather-brain with trifles and nonsense ? Where would
you be now, but for her? Would you have her die, to
whom you owe your life,^ — have her die, that sweet, lovely,
adorable creature, necessary to the light of the world, more
divine than God himself, while you, half madman and half
sage, a mere sketch of something or other, a sort of vege-
table growth which fancies that it walks and fancies that
it thinks, — you are to go on living with the life of which
you have robbed her, as useless as a candle at high noon ?
Come, have a little pity, Gringoire ; be generous in your
turn; she set you the example.”

The priest was excited. At first Gringoire listened
with an air of indecision ; then he relented, and ended by
pulling a tragic grimace, which made his pallid face look
like that of a new-born baby with the colic,

'' You are pathetic 1 ” said be, wiping away a tear.
“Well, I will consider it. That’s an odd idea of yours.
After all,” he added, after a pause, '' who knows ? Per-
haps tliey would not hang me. Betrothal is not always
marriage. When they find me in her cell, so ridiculously
arrayed, in cap and petticoats, perhaps they 11 burst out
laughing. And then, if they do hang me, why, the ^ rope
is like any other death ; or, rather, it ’s not like any other
death. It is a death worthy of the wise man who has
wavered and swung to and fro all his life, — a death which
is neither fish nor flesh, like the spirit of the genuine
sceptic; a death fully impressed with Pyrrhonism and
imcertainty, a happy medium between heaven and earth,

256 NOTRE-BAME. .

which leaves one in suspense. It is the right death for
a philosopher^ and perhaps I was predestined to it. It is
magnificent to die as one has lived.”

The priest interrupted him : '' Is it agreed ? ”

“What is death, after all?” continued Gringoire, with
exaltation. “An unpleasant moment, a turnpike gate,
the passage from little to nothing. Some one having
asked Cercidas, of Megalopolis, if he was willing to die,
* Why not?’ he answered; 4br after my death I shall
see those great men, — Pythagoras among the philoso-
phers, Hecatreus among the historians, Homer among the
poets, Olympus among the musicians.’”

The archdeacon offered him his hand. “ It is settled,
then ? You will come to-morrow/’

This gesture brought Griugoire back to reality.

“ Oh, no ; by my faith ! ” said he in the tone of a man
awaking from sleep. “ To be hanged I That is too absurd.
I’ll not do it.”

“ Farewell, then ! ” and the archdeacon added between
his teeth, “ I shall see you again ! ”

I have no desire to see that devil of a man again,”
thought Gringoire; and he hiiiTied after Don Claude.
“ Stay, Sir Archdeacon ; no malice between old friends 1
You take an interest in that girl, — in my wife, I should
say ; it is well. You have planned a stratagem for rescu-
ing her from ISTotre-Dame ; but your scheme is a very dis-
agreeable one for me, Gringoire. Suppose I have another 1
I warn you that a most brilliant inspiration has just oc-
curred to me. What if I have a suitable plan for getting
her out of her evil plight without compromising iny own
neck in the least of slip-nooses, what would you say?

GIUNGOIRE HAS SEVERAL CAPITAL IDEA. ^ 257

Wouldn’t that satisty you ? Is it absolutely necessary
that 1 should be hanged/ to suit you?’'

The priest impatiently wrenched the buttons from his
cassock, saying, What a flood of words! What is your
scheme ? ”

‘‘ Yes,” resumed Gringoire, talking to himself, and laying
his finger to his nose in token of his absorption, ‘'that’s
just it! Tiie Vagabonds are brave fellows. The gypsy
nation love her! They will rise at a single word! hfoth-
iiig easier ! A sudden attack ; amidst the confusion she
can readily be carried off. To-morrow night. They will
ask nothing better.”

“Your plan! speak!” sjiid the priest, shaking him
roughly.

Gringoire turned majestically towards him. “ Let me
alone I Don’t you sec that I am in the throes of composi-
tion ? ” He reflected for a few moments more, then clapped
his hands in delight, exclaiming, “ Capital ! success is
assured I ”

“ Your plan ! ” angrily repeated Claude.

Gringoire was radiant.

“ Come close, and let me whisper it to you. It is really
a jolly countermine, and one which will get us all out of
the difficulty. Zounds 1 you must confess that I am no
fool.”

He interrupted himself, —

“ Oh, by the way ! is the little goat still with the girl ? ”

“ Yes ! May the foul fiend fly away with you ! ”

“ They were going to hang her too, were tliey not?”

“What is that to me?” , , .

NOTRE-DAME.

Yes, they would have hanged Iier. They did hang a
sow last month. The liangman likes that; lie eats the
animal afterwards. Hang my pretty Djali 1 Poor little
lamb!"

'' Curses on you ! ” cried Don Claude. '' You are the
executioner yourself. What means of saving her liave
you hit upon, rascal ? Must I tear your idea from you
with the forceps?"

Softly, master ! It is this.”

Gringoire bent to the archdeacon's ear, and whispered to
him, casting an anxious glance up and down the street
meanwhile, although there was no one in sight. When
he ended, Don Claude took his Ijand and said coldly,
“It is well. Until to-morrow, then."

“ Until to-morrow," repeated Gringoire. And as the
archdeacon departed in one direction, he moved away in
the other, muttering: “Here^s a pretty business. Master
Pierre Gringoire ! Never mind ! It sliall not be said that
because a man is little he is afraid of a great enterprise.
Biton carried a full-grown bull upon his shoulders ; wag-
tails, black-caps, and stone-chats cross the sea.”

TUEN VAGABOND!

T he archdeacon, oii returning to the cloisters, found
his brotlier, Jehan du Moulin, awaiting hini at the
door of his cell. He had whiled away the fatigue of
waiting by drawing upon the wall in charcoal his elder
brother’s profile, enriched with an e^caggerated nose.

260

NOTBE-DAME.

Don Claude scarcely looked at Ids brother ; he had
other cares. That merry roguish face, whose radiance had
so often brightened the priest^s gloomy countenance, was
now incapable of dissipating the clouds which grew daily
thicker over that corrupt, mephitic, stagnant soul.

Brother,” timidly said Jehan, I have come to see
you.”

The archdeacon did not even deign to look at him.

" Well ? ”

‘‘Brother,” continued tlie hypocrite, ‘‘you are so good
to me, and you give me such good advice, that I am
always coming back to you.”

“Well?”

“Alas! brother, how right you were when you said to
me, ‘Jehaii! Jehan! cessat doctorum doctrina, discipu-
lorum disciplina ! Jehan, be prudent ; Jehan, be studious;
Jehan, do not wander outside the college bounds at night
without just cause and leave from your master. Do not
quarrel with the Picards (noli, Joannes, verberare Pi~
cardos). Do not lie and moulder like an illiterate ass
(quasi asinus illiteratus) amidst the litter of the schools.
Jehan, suffer yourself to be punished at the discretion of
your master. Jehan, go to chapel every evening, and
sing an anthem with a collect and prayer to our Glorious
Lady, the Virgin Mary,' Alas I What excellent coun-
sels were these ! ”

“Well? ”

“ Brother, you see before you a guilty wretch, a criminal,
a miserable sinner, a libertine, a monster I My dear
brother, Jehan has tram j>Ied your advice beneath his feeL

TURN VAGABOND!

261

I am fitly punished for it, and tlie good God is strangely
just. So long as 1 had money I rioted and revelled and
led a jolly life. Oh, how charniiiig is tlie face of Vice,
but how ugly and crooked is her back ! Now, I have not
a single silver <join ; I have sold iny table-cloth, my shirt,
and my towel; no more feasting for me 1 The wax candle .
has burned out, and I have nothing left but a wretched
tallow dip, which reeks in my nostrils. The girls laugh
a.t me. I drink water. I am tormented by creditors and
remorse.”

“ What else ? ” said the archdeacon.

''Alas ! dearest , brother, I would fain lead a better life.

I come to you, full of contrition. I am penitent. I com
fess my sins. I beat my breast lustily. You were quite
right to wish me to become a licentiate, and sub-monitor
of the College de Torchi. I now feel that I liave the
strongest vocation for that office. But I have no ink, I
must buy more; I have no pens, I must buy more; I
have no paper, I have no books, I must buy more. I am
in great want of a little money for all these things, and I
come to you, brother, with a contrite heart.”

" Is that all ?”

" Yes,” said the student. '' A little money.”

" I have none.”

The student then said with a grave and at the same
time resolute air, Very well, brother ; I am sorry to he
obliged to tell you that very fine offers and propositions
have been made me by another party. You will not
give me the money? No? In that case, I shall turn
Vagabond.”

26 : 2 '

KOTRE-BAME.

As he uttered this monstrous word, lie assniued the ex-
prcssioii of an Ajax, expecting to see the thunderbolt
descend upon his bead.

The arclideacon said coldly, —

“ Turn Vagabond ! ”

Jehan bowed low, and hurried down the cloister stairs,
whistling as he went.

Just as he passed through the courtyard of tlie cloisters,
under his lirother's window, he lieard that window open,
looked up, and saw the ai'chdeacoifs stern face at tlie
aperture.

Go to the devil!” said Don Claude; ''this is the last
money which you will ever get from me!”

At the same time he flung at Jelian a purse which
raised a large lump on his forcliead, and with which he
departed, at once angry and pleased, like a dog pelted
with marrow-bones.

JOY FOTiEVER!

'■'T^HE reader may remember that a part of the Court of
Miracles was enclosed by the ancient boundary
wall of the city, many of wliose towers had at this time
begun to fall into ruin. One of these towers had been
made into a pleasure-house by the Vagabonds, There was

264 .

NOTRE-DAME.

a tavern in tlie lower portion, ami other things above.
This tower was the most lively ami coiisei.pieutly the most
iiorrible spot in the Vagrant community. It was a sort ol
monstrous bee-hive, which buzzed and hummed iiiglit and
day. At night, when all the surplus beggars were asleep,
when there was not a window still lighted in any of the
dirty houses in the square, when no sound was longer to
be heard from any of the innumerable hovels, the abode
of swarms of thieves, prostitutes, and stolen children or
foundlings, the jolly tower might always be known by the
noise wliich rose from it, by the red light which, beaming
alike from chimneys, windows, and cracks in the crum-
bling walls, escaped, as it were, at every pore.

The cellar, then, was the tavern. It was reached by
a low door, and a flight of stairs as steep as a classic
Alexandrine verse. Over the door, by way of sign, there
was a marvellous daub portraying a number of coins
fresh from the mint and fresh-killed chickens, with these
punning words above : The Eingers for the Dead.''

One evening, when the curfew-bell was ringing from
every belfry in Paris, the sergeants of the watch, had they
chanced to enter the niuch-dreaded Court of Miracles,
might have observed that there was even more uproar
than usual in the tavern of the Vagabonds ; that there
was more drinking and more swearing than ordfnary.
Outside, in the square, numerous groups were chatting
together in low tones, as if planning some great enter-
prise; and here and there some scamp squatted on the
ground, sharpening a rusty iron blade upon a paving-
stone. Within the tavern itself, however, cards and wine

JOY FOBEVER!

265

proved so powerful a diversion from the ideas which that
evening occupied the minds of the Vagrant community,
that it would have been hard to guess from the remarks
of the drinkers what the scheme on foot really was;
they merely seemed somewhat more jovial than usual,
and between the legs of every man glistened a weapon, ■ —
a pruning-hook, an axe, a big two-edged sword, or the
hook of an old hackbut.

The room was circular in shape and very large ; but the
tables were so closely crowded and the topers so numer-
ous, that the entire contents of the tavern — men, women,
benches, beer-jugs, drinkers, sleepers, gamblers, able-bodied
and crippled — seemed to be heaped together pell-mell,
with no more order or harmony than a pile of oyster-
shells. A number of tallow dips burned on the tables;
but the real luminary of the tavern, which played the
same part as the chandelier in an opera-house, was
the fire. This cellar was so damp that the fire on the
hearth was never suffered to go out, even in midsummer.
There was a huge fireplace with carved overhanging
mantel, bristling with clumsy iron andirons and kitchen
utensils, and one of those tremendous fires of wood and
turf mixed, which at night, in village streets, cast such
red and spectral images on the opposite walls from
the window of a forge. A large dog sat soberly in the
ashes, and turned a spit laden with meat before the
embers.

In spite of the confusion, after the first glance, three
principal groups were ^readily to be distinguished, pressing
about three personages with whom the reader is already

NOTRE-PAME.

2i>6

acquainted. One of these persons, grotesquely decked
with various gaudy Oriental rags, was Matliias Huiigadi
Spicali, Duke of Egypt and Bohemia. The rascal sat
upon a table, with crossed legs and uplifted finger, loiidl}^
dispensing his store of black and white magic to the
many gaping faces around him. Another mob crowded
closely about our old friend, the worthy King of Tunis, or
lord of blacklegs, Glopin Trouillefou. Armed to the teeth,
he was very seriously, and in low tones, superintending tlie
pillage of an enormous cask full of weapons which stood
staved in before him, and from which were disgorged
quantities of axes, swords, priming-pans, coats of mail,
spear-heads and antique lance-heads, arrows and cross-bow
bolts, like so many apples and grapes from a cornucopia.
Each took from the heap what he chose, — one a helmet,
one a sword-blade, and another a misericordia, or cross-
handled dagger. The very children armed themselves,
and there were even legless cripples, crawling about,
barbed and cuirassed, between the legs of the topers,
like big beetles.

Lastly, a third audience — the noisiest, jolliest, and most
munerous of all — thronged the benches and tables, in
whose midst held forth and swore a flute-like voice issuing
from a heavy suit of armor, comp)lete from helmet to
spurs. The individual who had thus imprisoned himself
in full panoply was so entirely liidden by ])is warlike
habit, tbnt nothing was to be seen of him bnt an impu-
dent, red, snub nose, a lock of light curly hair, a rosy
mouth, and a pair of bold eyes. His belt was stuck full
and knives, a huge sword hung at liis side, a

JOY FOHEVEll!

267

rusty cross-bow was on the other thigh, and a vast jug
of wine stood before him; not to mention a plump and
ragged damsel at his right hand. Every mouth in his
vicinity laughed, cursed, and drank.

Add to these twenty secondary groups, — the serving
men and maids running about with jugs on their heads;
gamblers stooping over their marbles, tlieir hop-scotch,
dice, vachette, or exciting game of tringiet ; the cpiarrels
ill one corner, the kisses in another, — “and yon will have
some idea of the scene over wliicli flickered the glare
of a huge roaring fire, which made a myriad monstrous
* shadows dance upon the walls.

As for the noise, it was like the inside of a big bell
ringing a full peal.

The dripping-pan, in which a shower of fat from the
spit was crackling, filled up with its constant sputtering
the intervals in the endless dialogues going on from one
side of the hall to tlie other.

Amidst this uproar, a philosopher sat at the back of
the room on the bench in the chimney-place, musing, with
his feet in the ashes and his eyes on the burning brands ;
it was Pierre Gringoire.

Gome 1 make liaste, arm yourselves 1 We marcli in
an hour!” said Clopin Trouillefou to, his Conters.

A giii hummed, —

“ Good-night, mamma. ; good-night, my sire ;

Who sits up last, raises down the fire/'

Two card-players disputed together.

'' Knave,’’ cried the redder-faced of the two, shahing l)is
fist at the other, "'I will mark you with the club; then

268

NOtRE-I)AMK.

you can take the place of Paiu^ iu the king’s own pack
of cards.’’

''Ouf!'' roared a Norman, readily to be recognized by
liis nasal twang; ‘'we “are crowded together here like so
many saints at Cailloiiville ! ”

“ Boys,” said the Duke of Egypt to his followers, speak-
ing in falsetto tones, “ the witches of France attend their
Sabbath without broomstick, or ointment, or any steed,
merely by uttering a few magical words. Italian witches
always keep a goat waiting for tliem at the door. All
are obliged to go up the chimney.”

The voice of the young scamp armed from head to
foot rose above the uproar.

" Noel 1 Noel I ” he shouted. " To-day I wear armor for
the first time. A Vagrant I I am a Vagrant, by Christ’s
wounds! Give me drink! Friends, my name is Jean
Frolic de Moulin, and I am a gentleman born. It is
my opinion tliat if God himself were a dragoon, he would
turn plunderer. Brothers, we are about to go on a fine
expedition. We are valiant fellows. Assault the church,
break open tlie doors, carry off tlie lovely damsel in dis-
tress, save her from her judges, save her from the priests ;
dismantle the cloisters, burn the bishop in his palace.
We 11 do all this iu less time than it takes a burgo-
master to eat a spoonful of soup. Our cause is Just; we
will strip Notre-Dame, and that’s the end of it. We’ll
hang Quasimodo. Do you know Quasimodo, ladies ? Did
you ever see him ring the big bell of a Whit-Siinday
until he was out of breath ? My word ! it ’s a lovely

^ Knave of clubs.

JOY FOEEVEK!

■ 269 .,

sigiifc! He looks like a devil astride of a great gaping
pair of jaws. Friends, listen to me. I am a Vagrant to
my heart’s core ; I am a Canter in my inmost soul ; I was
born a Cadger. I have been very rich, and I Ve devoured
my fortune. My mother meant to make a soldier of me ;
my father, a sub-deacon ; my aunt, a member of the Court
of Inquiry ; my grandmother, prothonotary to the Iving ;
my great-aunt, a paymaster in the army ; but I, — I turned
Vagrant. I told my father that I had made my choice,
and he hurled a curse at my liead ; and my mother, — she,
poor old lady, fell to weeping and sputtering, like that log
on the fire. A short life and a merry one, say I ! I am
as good as a whole houseful of lunatics 1 Landlady, my
darling, more wine ! I 've money enough still to pay for it.
No more Surferie wine for me ; it frets my throat. Zounds !
I 'd as soon gargle myself with a swarm of bees ! ”

Meantime, the rabble applauded his words with shouts
of laughter; and seeing that the tumult about him in-
creased, the student exclaimed: —

“ Oh, what a delightful confusion 1 Pojmli debacchantis
lyopidosa debacchatio / Then he began to sing, his eye
rolling in feigned ecstasy, in the voice of a canon intoning
vespers : Qiice cantica I qum organa ! qum cantihnm !

qiim melodicB Me sine fine decantantur ! Sonant mdlifina
hymnornm organa, suavissima angelorimi melodia, cantica
caniiconm mira — ” He stopped short : Here, you devil
of a tavern-keeper, give me some supper 1 ”

There was a moment of comparative quiet, during
which the sharp voice of the Duke of Egypt was heard
in its turn, instructing his followers : —

NOTRK^IMME.

2ro

Tiie weasel is called Aduine, the fox FUue-fuot or the
Wood-ranger, the wolt Gray-foot or Gold-foot, the bear
(Jkl Man or Grandfather. The cap of a gnome will make
its possessor invisible, and enable him to see invisible
things. Every toad that is baptized should be clad in
black or red velvet, a bell round its neck and anotlier
at its feet. The godfather holds it by the head, the god-
mother by the legs.”

The Vagrants continuetl to arm, whispering together as
did so, at the other end of the tavern.

‘^Poor Esmeralda!” said a gypsy; “she's our sister.
We must rescue her.”

“ Is she still at Notre-Dame ? ” asked a Je wish-looking
Cadger.

“ Yes, in good sooth, she is I

“ Well, then, comrades,” cried the Cadger, “ on to Notre-
Dame 1 So much the more, that there are two statues in
the chapel of Saint Fdr(5oI and Saint Ferrution, — one of
Saint John the Baptist and the other of Saint Anthony,
— of solid gold, the two together weighing seven golden
marks and fifteen sterlings, and the silver-gilt pedestals
woigli seventeen marks and five ounces. I know all
about this ; I am a jeweller.”

Here Jeliaifs supper was served. He exclaimed, as he
threw him>self back upon the bosom of the girl next him ; —

“ By Saint Voult-de-Lucqiies, known to the world at
large as Saint Gogiielii, I am perfectly happy ! Before me
stands a fool staring at me with as smug a face as any
archduke. And at my left, elbow sits another, with teeth
so long that they hide liis chin. And then, too, I hn like

Marshal de (lid at the siege of Fontoise, — my right wing
rests upon ail eminence. Body of Mahomet 1 comrade, you
Jook very like a dealer in tennis-balls, and yet you dare
to take your seat byrny sidel I am a noble, my friend.
Nobility and trade cannot keep company. Get you gone I
Hollo there, you fellows ! don't fall to fighting. What !
Baptiste Croc][ue--Oison, you who have so fine a nose,
will you risk it against the heavy fists of yonder lout ?
Donkey I rmu cimjuam datimi est hccbere nasimi. You are
indeed divine, Jacqueline Eonge-Oreille ! 'T is a pity
you 're so bald. Hollo I my name is J eban Frolic, and
my brother is an archdeacon. May the devil take him !
Every word I say is true. When I turned Vagabond, I
clieerfully renounced the half of a house situated in Para-
dise, which my brother promised me [Dimuliam domimi
in ixmtdiso). I quote the Scriptures. I have an estate
in fee in the Kue Tirechappe, and all the women are
in love with me as truly as it is true that Saint Aloysius
was an excellent goldsmith, and that the five handicrafts
of the good city of Paris are those of the tanners, leather-
dressers, baldric-makers, purse-makers, and cordwainers,
and that Saint Lawrence was broiled over egg-shells. I
swear, comrades, —

‘ That for a year I ’ll drink no wine
If there he any lie in words of niiiao ! *

My charmer, it is moonlight ; only look yonder, tlirough
that loophole; how the wind rumples the clouds, — as I
do 3 mur tucker 1 Come, girls 1 snuff the children and the
candles. Christ and Mahomet ! what am I eating now, by
Jupiter? Ho, there, you fagot! the hairs which are miss-

272 ''

NOTRE-DxVME.

ing on the heads of your women/ 1 find in your omelets.
I say, old girl! I like my omelets bald. May the Devil
put your nose out of joint ! A fine hostelry of Beelzebub
this, where the wenches comb their heads with forks ! ^

So saying, he smashed his plate upon the paved floor,
and fell to singing at the top of his lungs: —

And for this self of miue,

Now hy the Blood Divine !

No creed I crave,

No law to save ;

1 have no fire,

I have no hut ;

And I require
No faith to put
In monarch high
Or Deity ! ”

Meantime, Clopin Trouillefou had finished his distribu-
tion of arms. He approached Gringoire, who seemed
plunged in deep thought, with his feet upon an andiron.

'' Friend Pierre,'* said the king of blacklegs, “ what the
deuce are you thinking about ? ’*

Gringoire turned to him with a melancholy smile.

I love the fire, my dear lord ; not for the trivial reason
that the fire warms our feet or cooks our soup, but because
it throws out sparks. I sometimes spend hours in watch-
ing the sparks fly up. I discover a thousand things in
these stars that sprinkle the black chirnney-back. These
stars are worlds as well.'*

May I be struck by lightning if I understand you ! **
said the Vagrant. ‘‘ Do you know what time it is ? **

“ I do, not,*’ replied Gringoire.

Clopin then went up to the Duke of Egypt: —

JOY FOREVER!

27:3

Comrade Mathias, this is not a lucky moment for our
scheme. They say that King Louis XT. is in Paris.”

“ So much the more reason for rescuing our sister from
his claws,” answered the old gypsy.

You speak like a man, Mathias,” said the King of
Tunis. Moreover, we will act adroitly. We need fear
no resistance within the church. The canons are mere
liares, and we muster strong. The officers of the Parlia-
ment will be nicely taken in to-niorrow when they come
to seize her ! I^y the Pope’s toe ! I don’t want the
pretty maid hanged 1 ”

With these words, Clopin left the tavern.

Meantime, Jehan shouted in hoarse tones, —

“I drink, I eat, I am drunk, I am Jupiter himself!
Ha ! Pierre rAssommeur, if you stare at me like that, I ’ll
dust your nose with a fillip or two ! ”

Gringoire, on his side, roused from his meditations, was
contemplating the wild, noisy scene before him, mutter-
ing between his teeth : Luxiiriosa res vimim et hmiid-
tuosa ehrietas. Alas 1 I have good reasons for not drinking ;
and how aptly Saint Benedict says : ' Vimim aimtatcvve
ficcit etimii scqnentes ’ ! ”

At this instant Clopin returned, and cried in a voice of
thunder, —

“ Midnight 1 ”

At this word, which had the effect of “ Boot and saddle !”
upon a regiment at rest, all the Vagrants, men, women,
and children, rushed hurriedly from the tavern, with a
great clatter of arms and old iron.

The moon was overcast.

VOL, n. — 18

'214

NOTRE-DAME.

The Court of Miracles was quite dark. Tliere was not
a light to be seen ; and yet it was for from being empty.,
A crowd of men and women, talking together in low tones,

had collected. There
was ail audible buzz of
. d. voices and a glitter of

raised his voice : —

‘bNow, silence as we pass through Paris! ^ The cliwe
ill the dy ' ^ is the password ! The torches will not be
liglited until we reach Notre-Dame ! Forward, march V*-
Ten minutes later the Iiorsemen of the wartch fled in
terror before a long procession of dark, silent men cle-
scending upon the Pont an Change througli the crooked
streets whicli traverse the , closely-built region of the
markets in every direction.

AN AWKWARD FRIEND,

' 'T^HAT same niglit Qiia-

simodo did not sleep.
He Iiad just made bis last
round in the cliurcli. ^ He
did not notice, as he closed
'the doors, that the archdeacon passed, and seemed some-
what vexed at seeing him so carefully bolt and chain
tlie immense iron bars which made the wide leaves
as solid as a wall. Don Claude looked even more pre-
occupied than usual. Moreover, ever since his noc-
turnal adventure in the cell he had abused Quasimodo
constantly ; but though he maltreated him, nay, some-
times even heat him, nothing shook the submission, pa-

" 27 : 6 "

NOTRE-BAME.

tieiice, and humble resignation of the faithful ringer.
From the archdeacon he would bear anything and every-
tiiing, _ insults, threats, blows, — without murmuring a
reproach, without uttering a complaint. At most he
anxiously followed Don Claude with his eye, as he
climbed the tower stairs ; but the archdeacon had care-
fully abstained from appearing again in the gypsy’s
presence.

That night, then, Quasimodo, after giving a glance at
his poor forsaken bells, — at Jacqueline, Marie, and Thi-
bauld, — had ascended to the roof of the north tower, and
there, placing his well-closed dark-lantern upon the leads,
gazed out over Paris. The night, as we have already
said, was very dark. Paris, which at this time was but
scantily lighted, presented to the eye a confused collection
of black masses, intersected here and there by the silvery
bend of the Seine. Quasimodo saw but a single light,
and that in the window of a distant structure, the dim,
dark outlines of which were distinctly visible above the
roofs, in the direction of Porte Saint-Antoine. There, too,
some one was watching.

While his one eye roamed over the expanse of mist and
night, the ringer felt within him an inexplicable sense of
alarm. For some days he had been upon his guard. He
liad constantly seen evil-looking men prowling about the
church, and never taking their eyes from the young girl’s
hiding-place. He fancied that there might be some plot
brewing against the unfortunate refugee. He imagined
that she was a victim to popular hatred like himself, and
that sometliing might come of it soon. He therefore

AN AWKWABD FRIEND.

277

stationed himself upon his tower, on the alert, '' dreaming
in his dreamery ” as Rabelais has it, his eye by turns bent
upon the cell and upon Paris, keeping faithful watch, like
a trusty dog, with a thousand doubts and fears.

All at once, while scrutinizing the great city with the
one eje which Nature, by a sort of compensating justice,
had made so piercing that it might almost supply the
other organs which he lacked, it seemed to him that the
outline of the Quai de la Vieille-Pelleterie looked some’
what peculiarly, that there was something moving at that
point, that the line of the parapet darkly defined against
the white water was not straight and steady like that of
the other quays, but that it rippled, as he gazed, like the
waves of a river or the heads of a moving multitude.

This struck him as singular. He redoubled his atten-
tion. The movement seemed to be towards the City.
There was no light to be seen. It continued for some
time upon the quay; then it subsided gradually, as if
whatever might be passing had entered the interior of the
Island ; then it ceased entirely, and the line of the quay
became straight and motionless once more.

While Quasimodo was lost in conjectures, it seemed to
him as if the movement had reappeared in the Eue du
Parvis, which leads into the City directly opposite the
front of Notre-Dame. At last, dense as was the darkness,
he saw the bead of a column emerge from that street,
and in an instant fill the square with a crowd in which
nothing could be distinguished in the shadow.s but that
it was a crowd.

The spectacle had its terrors. It is probable that this

ms.

NOTRE-PAME.

strange procession, wliicli seemed so desirous ot steal-
ing along xiiiseeii under cover of darkness, was equally
careful to observe laibrokeii silence. And yet some xioise
appeared inevitable, were it only the tramp ol ieet. But
this sound could not reach our deaf man’s ear, and the
vast host, so dimly seen, and wholly unlieard by him, yet
moving and marching onward so near him, produced upon
him the effect of an army of ghosts, mute, impalpable,
iiiddeu in mists. He seemed to see a fog-bank full of
men advancing upon him ; to see shadows stirring amid
the sixades.

Then his fears revived ; the idea of an attempt against
the gypsy girl again presented itself to his mind. He had
a confused sense that a violent scene was at hand. At
this critical moment he held counsel witli himself with
better judgment and more promptness than could have
been expected from so ill-organized a brain. Should he
awaken the gypsy ; help her to escape ? Which way ?
The streets were invested ; the church backed up against
the river. There was no boat, no outlet ! There was but
one thing to be done, — to die if need be on the threshold
of Notre-Daine ; to resist at least until some help shoidd
come, if any there were, and not to disturb Esmeralda’s
sleep. * The wretched girl would be wakened soon enough
to die. This resolve once taken, he began to scan the
enemy with greater composure.

The crowd seemed to increase every moment in the
square. He presumed that they must be making very
little noise, as the windows in the streets and square re-
mained closed. Suddenly a light shone out, and in an

AN AWKWARD FRIEND.

279

instant seven or eight blazing torches rose above the heads
of the multitude, shaking out their tufts of flame in the
darkness. Quasimodo then plainly saw an eddying, fright-
ful mass of ragged men and women below him in the
square, armed with scythes, pikes, bill-hooks, and halberds,
whose myriad blades glistened on every hand. Here and
there black pitchforks were i*eiired horn-like above those
hideous faces. He vaguely recalled this mob, and fancied
he recognized the heads of those who had but a few montbs
previous saluted him as Lord of Misrule. A man, grasping
a torch in one hand and a whip in the other, climbed upon
a post and seemed to be haranguing the crowd. At the
same time the strange army went through a number of
evolutions, as if taking up their station about the church.
Quasimodo picked up his lantern and descended to the
platform between the towers, to get a nearer view and to
consider means of defence.

Clopin Trouillefou, having arrived before the great door
of Notre-Dame, had indeed drawn up his troops in line of
battle. Although he did n'ot expect to meet with any re-
sistance, lie desired, like a prudent general, to preserve
such order as would enable him, if necessary, to confront a
sudden attack from the watch. He had therefore stationed
his brigade in such a way that, viewed from above and
from a distance, you would have taken them for tlie Eoman
triangle of the battle of Ecnoma, the boards head of Alex-
ander, or the famous wedge of Gustavus Adolphus. The
base of this triangle rested upon the farther end of the
square, so that it blocked the Eue du Parvis ; one side faced
the Hdtel-Bieu, the other the Rue Saint-Pierre-aiix-Boeafs.

■ 280 ,^

KOTRB-BAME.

Clopin, Trouillefou had placed himself at the head, with
the Duke of Egypt, our friend Jehari, and the most daring
of the dummy-chuckers.

Such an attack as the Vagrants were now planning to
make upon Kotre-Danie was no very uncommon thing in
the towns of the Middle Ages. What are now known as
police did not then exist. There was no central, controlling
power in populous cities, or more particularly in capitals.
Tlie feudal system constructed these large communities
after a strange fashion. A city was a collection ot a thou-
sand seigniories, or manors, which divided it up into dis-
tricts of ail shapes and sizes. Hence arose a thousand
contradictory police forces ; that is, no police at all. In
Paris, for instance, independently of the one hundred and
forty-one nobles laying claim to manorial rights, there
were twenty-five who also claimed the additional right
to administer justice, — from the Bishop of Paris, who
owned one hundred and five streets, down to the Prior
of iSTotre-Dame des Champs, who owned but four. All
these feudal justiciaries recognized the supreme power of
the king only in name. All had right of way ; all were
on their own ground. Louis XI, that indefatigable la-
borer who did such good work in beginning the demo-
lition of the feudal structure, carried on by Eichelieu
and Louis XIV. to the advantage of royalty, and com-
pleted by Mirabeau to the advantage of the people, —
Louis XI. had indeed striven to break this network of
seigniories which enveloped Paris, by hurling violently
athwart it two or three poHce ordinances. Thus in 1465
the inhabitants were commanded to light their windows

AN AWKWARD FRIEND.

281

wit!i candles at nightfall, and to shut up their dogs, under
pain of the halter; daring the same year an order was
issued that the streets must be clo>sed with iron chains
after dark, and citizens were forbidden to wear daggers or
any offensive weapons in the street at night. But ail these
attempts at nninicipal legislation soon fell into" disuse.
People let the wind blow out the candles in their windows,
and allowed their dogs to roam ; the iron cliains were only
put up in time of siege ; the prohibition of daggers led to
but little change. The old framework of feudal jurisdic-
tions remained standing : an immense number of bailiwicks
and seigniories, crossing one another tlirougliout the city,
crowded, tangled, interlapping, and interwoven ; a useless
confusion of watches, sub-watches, and counter-watches, in
spite of which brigandage, rapine, and sedition were car-
ried on by main force. It was not, therefore, an unheard-of
thing, in the midst of such disorder, for a part of the popu-
lace fco make a bold attack upon a palace, a great mansion,
or a house, in the most thickly settled quarters of the
town. In the majority of cases the neighbors did not
meddle with the matter, unless the pillage extended to
their own houses. They turned a deaf ear to the musketry,
closed their shutters, barricaded their doors, left the out-
break to be settled with or without the watch, and next
day it would be reported : Last night, ifetienne Barbette's
house was entered.'’ Marshal Clermont was carried ofif
etc. Accordingly, not only royal habitations, the Louvre,
the Palace, the Bastille, the Tournelles> but the houses of
the nobility, the Petit-Bourbon, the Sens mansion, the
d’Angoul^me mansion, etc., had their hattlemented walls

282 ''

JS’OTPtE-DAME.

and tbeir portcullises. Chiirciies were guarded by their
sanctity. Certain of them, however, but not Notre-Daiue,
were fortified. The abbot of Saint-Germain des l’r(5s was
as strongly iotrenclied as any baron, and more brass was
consumed there in bombards than in bells. His fortress
was still standing in 1610. How, the church alone exists,
and that in ruins.

Let us return to Hotre-Daine.

When the first arrangements had been made (and we
must say, to the honor of tlie discipline of the Vagrants,
that Clopiifs orders were carried out in silence and with
admirable precision), the worthy leader of the band mounted
the parapet of the Parvis, and raised his hoarse, surly voice,
keeping liis face turned towards Notre-Dame, and waving
his torch, the flame of which, flickering in the wind, and
now and again veiled by its own smoke, first revealed and
theft hid the front of the church, lit up with a reddish
glow.

'' To you, Louis de Beaumont, Bishop of Paris, CounciL
lor of the Court of Parliament, I, Clopin Trouillelbii, king
of blacklegs, king of rogues, prince of cant, and bishop of
fools, proclaim : Our sister, falsely condemned for magic,
has taken refuge in your church. You owe her shelter and
safeguard. How, the Parliamentary Court desire to rC'-
cover her person, and you have given your consent; so
that indeed she would be hanged to-morrow on the Grbve
were not God and the Vagrants here to aid her. We have
therefore come hither to you, 0 Bishop. If your church
be sacred, our sister is likewise sacred ; if our sister be not
sacred, neither is your, church. Wherefore we summon

AN xlWKWARD l^RIEND.

283

you to deliver over to us tlie girl if you would save your
church, or we will seize upon the girl, and will plunder
the church, -which will be a righteous deed. In token
whereof I here plant ray banner ; and may God have you
in his guard, 0 Bishop of Paris ! *'

Unfortunately Quasimodo could not hear these words,
uttered as they were with a sort of sombre, savage majesty.
A Vagrant handed the banner to Glopin, who planted it
solemnly between two flagstones. It was a pitchfork,
from whose prongs hung a bleeding mass of carrion.

Tliis done, the King of Tiinis turned and glanced at
his army, — a fierce host, wliose eyes glittered almost as
brightly as their pikes. After an instant’s pause he
cried, —

Forward, boys 1 To your work, rebels 1 ” *

Thirty stout fellows, with sturdy limbs and crafty faces,
stepped from the ranks with hammers, pincers, and crow-
bars on their shoulders. They advanced towards the main
entrance of the church, mounted the steps, and were soon
crouching beneath the arch, working away at the door
with pincers and levers. A crowd of Vagrants followed
them to help or encourage. They thronged the eleven
steps leading to the porch.

Still the door refused to yield. The devil ! how
tough and obstinate it is ! ” said one. '' It is old, and its
joints are stiff,” said another. "Courage, comrades!” re-
plied Clopin. " I T1 wager my head against an old slipper
that youTl have opened the door, captured the girl, and
stripped the high-altar before a single sacristan is awake.
Stay ! I think the lock is giving way.”

:284

NOTKE~DAME.

Clopin was interrupted by a tremendous din behind
him. He turiaed. A huge beam had fallen from the sky ;
it had crushed a dozen of his Vagrants on the church
steps, and rebounded to the pavement with the crash "of
a cannon, breaking the legs of various tatterdemalions
here and there in the crowd, which scattered with crie>s of
terror. In the twinkling of an eye the enclosed portion
of the square was cleared. The rebels, although protected
by the deep arclies of the porch, forsook the door, and
Clopin himself retired to a respectful distance.

‘■'I had a narrow escape!” cried Jehan. ''I felt the
wind of it as it passed, by Jove! but Pierre rAssoinmeiir
is knocked downl”^.

It is impossible to picture the mingled consternation
and affright which overcame the bandits with the fall of
this beam. They stood for some moments staring into
the air, more dismayed by that fragment of wood than by
twenty thousand of the king's archers.

Satan 1 ” growled the Duke of Egypt ; that smells of
sorcery 1 "

‘'It must be the moon which flung that log at us ” said
Andry le Eouge.”

“ Why,” replied Franijois Chanteprune, " they say the
moon is a friend of the Virgin Mary!”

" By the Pope's head ! ” exclaimed Clopin ; “ but you are
a parcel of fools!” And yet even he could not explain
the fall of the plank

Meanwhile, nothing was to be seen xipon the front of

1 There is a play upon words in the original, Pierre TAssomioeur
Biguifying, literally, “Peter Knock- Wdown.” — Tu.

AN AWKWARD FRIEND.

286

the cathedral, to the top of which the light of the torches
did not reach. The heavy plank lay in the middle of
the square, and loud were the groans of the wretched
men who had received its first shock, and who had been
almost cut in two upon the sharp edges of the stone
steps.

The King of Tunis, his first dismay over, at last
hit upon an explanation which seemed plausible to his
companions: —

“ Odds bodikins ! are the canons defending themselves ?
Then, sack ! sack ! ”

'' Sack ! repeated the rabble, with a frantic cheer. And
they discharged a volley of cross-bows and hackbuts at
the church.

At this sound the peaceable inhabitants of the houses
roundabout were awakened ; several windows were thrown
open, and nightcaps and hands holding candles appeared
at them.

Fire at the windows ! ” roared Clopin. The windo%?s
were hastily closed ; and the poor citizens, who had barely
had time to cast a terrified glance at that scene of glare
and tumult, returned to sweat with fear beside their
wives, wondering if the witches were holding their rev-
els in the square before Notre-Dame, or if the Burgun-
dians had made another attack, as in '64 Then the
husbands thought of robbery, the wives of violence, and
all trembled.

“ Sack ! " repeated the Canters ; but they dared not ad-
vance, They looked at the church; they looked at the
beam. The beam did not budge, tlie building retained

286

KOTKEl-DAME.

its calm, deserted look; but something rooted the Vagrants
to the spot.

^^To work, I say, rebels P’ shouted Trouilleloii. “ Force
the door!”

No one stirred.

Body o’ me ! ” said Clopin ; here ’s a pack of fellows
who are afraid of a rafter.”

An old rebel then addressed him: —

“Captain, it’s not the rafter that stops us; it’s the
door, which is entirely covered with iron bars. Our
pincers are of no use.”

“Well, what would you have to burst it in?” asked
Clopin.

“Ah 1 we need a battering-ram.”

The King of Tunis ran bravely up to the much-dreaded
beam, and set his foot upon it. “ Here you have one,” he
exclaimed ; “ the canons themselves have sent it to you,”
And with a mocking salutation in the direction of the
church, he added : “ Thanks, gentlemen ! ”

Tills piece of bravado proved effective ; the charm of
the beam was broken. The Vagrants recovered their cour-
age ; soon the heavy log, lifted like a feather by two liun-
clred sturdy arms, was furiously hurled against the great
door which they had vainly striven to shake. Seen thus,
in the dim light cast by tlie scanty torches of the Vagrants,
that long beam borne by that crowd of men, who rapidly
daslied it against the church, looked like some monstrous
beast with countless legs attacking tlie stone giantess
headforemost.

At the shock of the log, the semi-metallic door rang

an AWKWABD KU1EN0.

288

NOTBE-DAME.

like a vast drum ; it did not yield, but the whole cathe-
dral shook, and the deep vaults of the building re-echoed.

At the same moment a shower of large stones began
to rain from the top of the fa9ade upon the assailants.

^^The devil!’* cried Jehan; ^^are the towers shaking
down their balustrades upon our heads ? ”

But the impulse had been given, the King of Tunis
setting the example. The bishop was certainly defend-
ing himself; and so they only beat against the door with
greater fury, despite the stones which cracked their skulls
to right and left.

It is remarkable that these stones all fell singly, but
they followed one another in rapid succession.' The Cant-
ers always felt two at a time, — one at their legs, the
other on their heads. Few of them missed their mark,
and already a large heap of dead and wounded gasped
and bled under the feet of the besiegers, whose ranks,
they being now goaded to madness, were constantly re-
newed. The long beam still battered the door at regu-
lar intervals, like the clapper of a bell ; the stones still
rained down, and the door creaked and groaned*

The reader has doubtless guessed that* the unexpected
resistance which so enraged the Vagrants came from
Quasimodo,

Chance had unluckily served the brave deaf man.

When he descended to the platform between the towers,
his head whirled in confusion. For some moments he
ran along the gallery, coming and going like a madman,
looking down from above at the compact mass of Va-
grants ready to rush upon the church, imploring God or

AN AWKWARD FRIEND, 289

the Devil to save the gypsy girl. He thought of climb-
ing the south belfiy and ringing the alaiin but before
he could set the bell in motion, before big Marie’s
voice could utter a single shriek, the church door might
be forced ten times over. This was just the instant
when the rebels advanced with their tools. What was
to be done?

All at once he remembered that the masons had been
at work all day repairing the wall, timbers, and roof of
the south tower. This was a ray of light. The w^all
was of stone, the roof of lead, and the timbers of wood.
(The timbers were so huge, and there were so many of
them, that they went by the name of ''the forest.”)

Quasimodo flew to the tower. The lower rooms were
indeed full of materials. There were piles of rough
stones, sheets of lead in rolls, bundles of laths, heavy
beams already shaped by the saw, heaps of plaster and
rubbish, — a complete arsenal.

There was no time to be lost. The hammers and
levers were at work below. With a strength increased
tenfold by his sense of danger, he lifted one of the beams,
the heaviest and longest that he could find ; he shoved it
through a dormer-window, then laying hold of it again
outside the tower, he pushed it over the edge of tlie
balustrade surrounding the platform, and launched it in-
to the abyss. The enormous rafter, in its fall of one
hundred and sixty feet, scraping the w’^all, smashing the
carvings, turned over and over several times like one of
the arms of a windmill moving through space. At last
it reached the ground ; an awful shriek rose upon the

VOL. II. — 19

290

NOTEE-DAME.

air, and the black beam, rebounding from the pavement,
looked like a serpent darting on its prey.

Quasimodo saw the Vagrants scatter, as the log fell, like
ashes before the breath of a child. He took advantage
of tlieir terror; and while they stared superstitiously at
the club dropped from heaven, and put out the eyes of
the stone saints over the porch with a volley of aiTOws
and buckshot, Quasimodo silently collected plaster, stones,
gravel, even the masons’ bags of tools, upon the edge
of that balustrade from which the beam had already been
launched.

Thus, as soon as they began to batter at the door, the
hail of stones began to fall, and it seemed to them as
if the church were falling about their heads.

Any one who had seen Quasimodo at that moment
would have been frightened. Besides the projectiles
which he had piled upon the balustrade, he had col-
lected a heap of stones on the platform itself. As soon
as the missiles at the edge of the railing were exhausted,
he had recourse to the heap below. He stooped and
rose, stooped and rose again, with incredible actmty.
His great gnome-like head hung over the balustrade, then
a huge stone fell, then another, and another. How and
again he followed a particularly fine stone with his eye,
and if it did good execution he said, "Hum !”

Meantime, the ragamuffins were not discouraged. More
than twenty times already the heavy door which they
were attacking had trembled beneath the weight of their
oaken battering-ram, multiplied by the strength of a
hundred men. The panels cracked; the carvings flew

AN AWKWARD FRIEND

291

ill splinters; the hinges, at every blow, shook upon their
screw-rings ; the boards were reduced to powder, crushed
between the iron braces. Luckily for Quasimodo, there
was more iron than wood.

Still, he felt that the great door was yielding. Al-
though he could not hear, every stroke of the beam
echoed at once through the vaults of the church and
through his soul. He saw from above tlie Vagrants,
full of rage and triumph, shaking their fists at the shad-
owy facade ; and he coveted, for himself and for the
gypsy girl, the wings of the owls which flew over his
head in numbers.

His shower of stones did not suffice to repel the
enemy.

At this moment of anguish he observed, a little be-
low tlie balustrade from which he was crushing the
Canters, two long’ stone gutters, or spouts, which emptied
directly over the great door. The inner orifice of these
spouts opened upon a level with the platform. An idea
flashed into his mind. He ran to, the hovel which he
occupied as ringer, found a fagot, placed upon this fagot
a quantity of bundles of laths and rolls of lead, — ammu-
nition which he had not yet used, — and having carefully
laid this pile before the mouth of the two sj)auts, he set
fire to it with his lantern.

Daring this space of time, the stones having ceased
to fall, the Vagrants had also ceased to look up. The
bandits, panting like a pack of dogs which have luinted
a wild boar to liis lair, crowded tumultuously about the
door, disfigured by the battering-rarn,, but still holding

■■ 292 :

NOTRE-DAME.

firm. They awaited, with a shudder of eagerness, the
final blow which should shiver it. Each one strove to
be nearest to it, that he might be first, when it opened,
to rush into that wealthy cathedral, the vast magazine
in which were stored all the riches of three centuries.
They reminded each other, with roars of joy and greed,
of the beautiful silver crosses, the gorgeous brocade copes,
the superb monuments of silver-gilt, the magnificences of
the choir, the dazzling holiday displays, the Christmas
ceremonies glittering with torches, the Easters brilliant
with sunshine, — all the splendid and solemn occasions
wlien shrines, candlesticks, pyxes, tabernacles, and reli-
quaries embossed the altars with encrusted gold and dia-
monds. Certainly at this auspicious moment gonnofs and
arch-thieves, ruffians and sham-abrams thought far less
of freeing the gypsy girl than they did of sacking Notre-
Dame. We would even be willing to* believe that to a
goodly number of them Esmeralda was but a mere pre-
text, — if thieves require a pretext.

All at once, just as they gathered together about tlie
battering-ram for a final effort, every man holding Ins
breath and straining his muscles so as to lend all his
strength to the decisive blow, a howl more frightful even
than that which had risen and died away from beneatli
the rafter, again burst from their midst. Tliose wlio did
not shriek, those who still lived, looked up. Two streams
of molten lead fell from the top of the building into the
very thickest of the throng. The sea of men had subsided
beneath the boiling metal which had made, at the points
where it fell, two black and smoking holes in the crowed,

AN, AWKWARD KRIEND.

293

as boiling water would in snow. About them writhed the
dying, half consumed, and shrieking with agony. Around
the two principal jets there were drops of this horrible rain
which sprinkled the assailants, and penetrated their skulls
like gimlets of flame. A leaden fire riddled the poor
wretches as with countless hailstones.

The clamor was heart-rending. They fled pell-mell,
flinging the beam upon the corpses, the courageous with
the timid, and the square was cleared for the second time.

All eyes were turned to the top of the church. What
they saw was most strange. Upon the toj.) of the topmost
gallery, higher than the central rose-window, a vast flame
ascended between the two belfries with whirling sparks, —
a vast flame, fierce and strong, fragments of which were
ever and anon borne away by the wind wdth the smoke.
Below this flame, below the dark balustrade with its glow-
ing trefoils, tw^o spouts, terminating in gargojdes, vomited
unintermittent sheets of fiery rai^n, whose silvery streams
shone out distinctly against the gloom of the lower part of
the cathedral front. As they approached the ground, these
jets of liquid lead spread out into sheaves, like water pour-
ing from the countless holes of the rose in a watering-pot.
Above the flame, the huge towers, each of which showed
two sides, clear and trenchant, one all black, the other all
red, seemed even larger than they were, from the immensity
of the shadow which they cast, reaching to the very sky.
Their innumerable carvings of demons and dragons as-
sumed a mournful aspect. The restless light of the flames
made them seem to move. There were serpents, which
seemed to be laughing, gargoyles yelping, salamanders

294

NOTRE-DAME.

blowing the fire, dragons sneezing amid the smoke. And
among these monsters, thus wakened from tlieir stony
slumbers by the flame, by the noise, tiier^ was one that
walked about, and moved from time to time across the fiery
iVont of the burning pile like a bat before a candle.

Doubtless this strange beacon would rouse from afar the
woodcutter on the hills of Bic6tre, in alarm at seeing the
gigantic shadow of the towers of Notre'Dame cast flicker-
ing upon his moors.

The silence of terror fell upon the Vagrants, and while
it lasted nothing was lieard save the cries of consternation
uttered by the canons shut up in the cloisters, and more
restive than horses in a burning stable, the stealthy sound
of windows hastily opened and more hastily closed, the
bustle and stir iq the Hospital, the wind roaring through
the flames, the last gasp of the dying, and the constant pat-
tering of the leaden rain upon the pavement.

Meantime, the leaders of the Vagrants had withdrawn to
tlie porch of the Goiidelaurier house, and were holding
council. The Duke of Egypt, seated on a po.st, gazed witli
religious awe at the magical pilehlazing in the air at the
height of two Imndred feet. Clopin Trouillefou gnawed
his brawny fists with rage.

“ Impossible to enter ! ” he muttered betweep, his teeth.

“ An old witch of a church ! ” growled the aged gypsy
Mathias Hungadi Spicali.

“ By the Pope’s whiskers ! ” added a gray-haired old
•scaiup who had served his time in the army, “ Iiere are
church-spouts that beat the portcullis of Lectoure at spit-
ting molten lead.”

AN AWKWARD FRIENIX

295 ,

Do see that demon walking to and fro before the fire!”
exclaimed the Duke of Egypt.

“ By the Eood 1 ” said Clopin, it ’s that damned bell-
ringer ; it’s Quasimodo!”

The gypsy shook his head. “ I tell you that it is the
spirit Sabnac, the great marquis, the demon of fortifica-
tions. He takes the form of an armed soldier, with a lion’s
head. He turns men to stones, with which he builds
towers. He commands fifty legions. It is surely he ; I
recognize him. Sometimes lie is clad in a fine gown of
figured gold made in the Turkish fashion.”

Where is Bellevigne de TEtoile ? ” asked Clopin.

“ He is dead,” replied a Vagrant woman.

Aiidry le Eouge laughed a foolish laugh. '' ISrotre-Dame
makes plenty of work for the hosj)itaV’ said he.

Is there no way to force that door ? ” cried the King of
Tunis, stamping his foot.

The Duke of Egypt pointed sadly to the two streams of
boiling lead which still streaked the dark faqade like two
long phosphorescent spindles.

'' Cliurches have been known to defend themselves be-
fore/’ he observed with a sigh. St. Sophia, at Constan-
tinople, some forty years ago, thrice threw down the cres-
cent of Mahomet merely by sliaking her domes, wdnch
are her heads. Guillaume de Paris, who built this church,
was a magician.”

"'Must we then go home discomfited like a pack of
wretched lackeys ? ” said Clopin, " and leave our sister
here, to be hanged by those cowled wolves to-morrow 1 ”

“ And the sacristy, where there are cartloads of gold

296

NOTRE-^PAxME.

added a Vagabond whose name we regret that we do not
know.

By Mahomet*s beard 1 ” cried Trouillefoii.

^^Let ns make one more trial/' added the Vagabond.

Mathias Hiingadi shook his head.

" We shall not enter by the door. AVe must find the
weak spot in the old witch's armor, — a liole, a back gate,
any joint."

AVho 'll join us ? " said Clopin. “ I shall liave another
try. By the way, where is that little student Jehan, who
put on such a coa.t of mail ? "

He is probably dead," answered some one ; '' we don’t
hear his laugh.”

The King of Tunis frowned : So much the worse.
There was a stout heart beneath that steel. And Master
Pierre Gringoire ? "

Captain Clopin," said Andry le Eoiige, “ he took to
his heels when we had only come as far as the Pont-
aux-Changeurs.”

Clopin stamped his foot. '' By the Mass ! he urges us
on, and then leaves us in the lurch ! A cowardly prater,
helmeted with a slipper I "

Captain Clopin," said Andry le Eouge, who was look-
ing down the Eue du Parvis, there comes the little
student."

Pluto be praised 1 " said Clopin. “ But what the devil
is he lugging after him ? "

It was indeed Jehan, running as fast as was possible
under the weight of his heavy armor and a long ladder
wliich he dragged sturdily over the pavement, more

AN AWKWARD FRIEND.

297

breathless than an ant harnessed to a blade of grass
twenty times its own length.

'' Victory 1 Te Bmim ! ” shouted the student. Here ’s
the ladder belonging to the longshoremen of St. Landry^s
wharf.”

Clopin approached him : —

'' Zounds, child ! what are you going to do with that
ladder?”

'‘IVegot it,” replied Jehan, panting and gasping. ‘M
knew where it was, — under the shed at the lieutenant’s
house. There ’s a girl there who knows me, \vho thinks
me a perfect Cupid. I took advantage of her folly to get
the ladder, and I have the ladder, odds bodikins I The
poor girl came down in her shift to let me in.”

Yes,” said Clopin ; “ but what will you do with the
ladder now that you have got it ? ”

Jehan looked at him with a mischievous, cunning air,
and cracked his fingers like so many castanets. At that
moment he was sublime. He had on his head one of
those enormous fifteenth-century helmets, which terrified
the foe by their fantastic crests. It bristled with ten iron
beaks, so that he might have disputed the tremendous
cognomen of 8e/ce/x/3oXo9, with Nestor’s Homeric vessel.

What shall I do with it, august King of Tunis ? Do
you see that row of statues with their foolish faces yonder,
above the three porches ? ”

Yes ; what then ? ”

That is the gallery of the kings of France,”

“ What is that me ? ” said Clopin.

“ Wait a bit I At the end of that gallery there is a door

298

NOTEE-DAME.

wliich is always on the latch, and with this ladder I will
climb to it, and then I am in the church.”

'' Let me go up first, boy ! ”

Not a bit of it, comrade ; the ladder is mine. Come,
you may be second.”

May Beelzebub strangle you ! ” said the surly Clopin.

1 11 not be second to any man.”

^‘Then, Clopin, seek a ladder for yourself;” and Jehan
set out at full speed across the square, dragging his ladder
after him, and shouting, —

- Help, lads, help!”

In an instant the ladder was lifted, and, placed against
the railing of the lower gallery, over one of the side doors.
The crowd of Vagrants, uttering loud cheers, thronged to
the foot of it, eager to ascend ; but Jehan maintained his
right, and was first to set foot upon the rounds. The,
journey was long and slow. The gallery of the kings of
France is now some sixty feet above the pavement. The
eleven steps leading to the door made it still higher at the
time of our story. Jehan climbed slowly, hampered by
his heavy armor, clinging to the ladder with one hand and
his arquebus with the other. When he reached the
middle, he cast a melancholy glance downwards at tlie
poor dead Canters who bestrewed the steps.

Alas ! ” said he, there 's a heap of corpses worthy of
the fifth hook of the Iliad ! ” Then he resumed his as-
cent. The Vagrants followed him ; there was one upon
every round. As this undulating line of cuirassed backs
rose through the darkness, it looked like a serpent with
scales of steel rearing its length along the church. Jehan,

AN AWKWARD FRIEND.

299

who represented the head/ whistled shrilly, thus complet-
ing the illusion.

At last the student touched the balcony, and nimbly
strode over it, amid the applause of the assembled Va-
grants. Thus master of the citadel, he uttered a shout of
joy, and all at once paused, petrified. He had seen be-
hind one of the royal statues Quasimodo and his glitter-
ing eye lurking in the shadow.

Before a second assailant could set foot upon the gal-
lery, the terrible hunchback leaped to the top of the lad-
der, seized, without a word, the ends of the two uprights
in his strong hands, raised them, pushed them from the
wall, balancing for a moment, amid screams of agony, the
long, pliant ladder loaded with Vagrants from top to bot-
tom, and then suddenly, with superhuman force, hurled
tile clustering mass of men into the scpiare. There was an
instant when the boldest trembled. The ladder plunged
backward, for a moment stood erect, and seemed to hesi-
tate, then tottered, then all at once, describing a frightful
arc of eighty feet in radius, fell headlong on the pavement
with its burden of bandits, more swiftly than a drawbridge
when the chains which hold it are broken. There was an
awful volley of curses, then all was hiislied, and a few
mutilated wretches crawled away from under the heap of
dead.

A clamor of rage and pain followed the first cries of
triumph among the besiegers. Quasimodo looked on un-
moved, leaning upon tlie balustrade. He seemed like
some loug-liaired old king at his window,

Jehan Frollo, for his part, was in a critical situation.

300

NOTBE-DAME.

He was alone in the gallery with the dreadful ringer,
parted from his companions by a perpendicular wall eighty
feet high. While Quasimodo juggled with the ladder, the
student hurried to the postern, which he supposed would
be open. Hot at all. The deaf man, on entering the gal-
lery, had fastened it behind him. Jehan then hid him-
self behind a stone king, not daring to breathe, and eying
the monstrous hunchback with terror, like the man who,
making love to the wife of the keeper of a menagerie,
went one night to see her by appointment, climbed the
wrong wall, and abruptly found himself face to face with
a white bear.

For a few moments the deaf man paid no heed to him ;
but finally he turned his head and started. He had just
seen the student.

Jehan prepared for a rude encounter ; but the deaf
man stood motionless: he had merely turned, and was
looking at the youth.

“Ho! ho!” said Jehan, “why do you fix that single
melancholy eye so steadfastly upon me?”

As he said this, the young scamp slyly adjusted his
cross-bow.

“Quasimodo,” he cried, “T am going to change your
name ! Henceforth you shall be called ‘ the blind ! ”’

The arrow flew. The winged bolt whizzed through the
air, and was driven into the hunchback’s left arm. It
disturbed Quasimodo no more than a scratch would have
done the statue of King Pharamond. He put his hand to
the dart, pulled it forth, and quietly broke it across his
great knee ; then he let the two pieces fall to the ground

AN AWKWARD FRIEND.

301

ratlier than threw them down. But Jehaii had no time
to fire a second shot. The arrow broken, Quasimodo drew
a long breath, leaped like a grasshopper, and came down
upon the student, wdiose armor was flattened against the
wall by the shock.

Then by the dim light of the torches a terrible thing
might have been seen.

Quasimodo with his left hand grasped both Jehan’s
arms, the poor fellow making no resistance, so hopeless
did he feel that it would be. With his right hand the
deaf man removed from him one after the other, in silence
and with ominous slowness, all the pieces of his armor, —
the sword, the daggers, the helmet, the cuirass, and* the
brassarts. He looked like a monkey picking a nut as he
dropped the student’s iron shell, bit by bit, at his feet.

When the youth found himself stripped, disarmed,
naked and helpless in those terrible hands, he did not
try to speak to that deaf man, but he laughed impudently
in his face, and sang, with the bold unconcern of a lad
of sixteen, the song then popular — •

She 's clad in bright array,

The city of Cambray.

Marafin plundered her one day . . . ”

He did not finish. They saw Quasimodo upright upon the
parapet, holding the boy by the feet with one hand, and
swinging him round like a sling over the abyss; then a
sound was heard like a box made of bone dashed against
a wall, and something fell, but caught a third of the way
down upon a projection. Tt was a dead body which hung
there, bent double, the back broken, the skull empty.

302

NOTRE-DAME.

A cry of horror rosa froin the Vagrants.

Vengeance ! yelled Clopiii. Sack 1 replied the mul-
titude. Assault ! assault ! ''

Tlien there was an awful howl, intermingled with all
languages, all dialects, and all accents. The poor student^s
death filled the mob with zealous fury. Shame gained
the upper hand, and wrath tliat they had so long been
held in check before a church by a hunchback. Kage

found ladders, multiplied
torches, and in a few mo-
ments Quasimodo, in de-
spair, beheld that fearful
swarm mounting on all
sides to attack Notre-
Darne. Those wdio had
no ladders had knotted
ropes ; those who had no
ropes scramblecl up by
the jutting sculptures.
They clung to one anotli-
'^■er's 'rags. , '■;'There\:waS'' 'no'':'':
way to resist this rising
tide of awful figures ;
fury gleamed from their
fierce faces ; their grimy foi’eheads streamed with perspi-
ration : their eyes gleamed ; all these grimaces, all tliese
deformities beset Quasimodo. It seemed as if some other
church had sent its gorgons, its mediaeval animals, its
dragons, its demons, and its most fantastic carvings, to
lay siege to Notre-Dame. A stratum of living monsters

AN AWKWAED FRIEND.

303

seemed to cover the stone monsters of the cathedral
front.

Meantime, the square was starred with a thoiisaiid
torches. The scene of confusion, hitherto lost in dark-
ness, was suddenly ablaze with light. The square shone
resplendent, and cast a red glow upon the heavens ; tlie
bonfire kindled upon the high platform still burned, and
lighted up the city in the distance. The huge silhouette of
the two towers, outlined afar upon the house-tops of Paris,
formed a vast patch of shadow amid the radiance. The
city seemed to be aroused. Distant alarm-bells sounded.
The Vagrants howled, panted, swore, climbed higher and
higher; and Quasimodo, powerless against so many foes,
shuddering for the gypsy girl, seeing those furious faces
approach nearer and nearer to his gallery, implored Pleaven
to grant a miracle, and wrung his hands in despair.

THE RETREAT WHERE LOUIS OF
FRANCE SAYS HIS PRAYERS.

T he reader may remember that
a moment before he caught
sight of the nocturnal band I
of Vagrants, Quasimodo, while 4$ '

inspecting Paris from the top
of his belfry, saw but one
light still burning, and tha.t ^
gleamed from a window in the ♦

highest story of a tall dark structure close beside the
Porte Saint- Antoine. This building was the Bastille ;
that starry light was the candle of Louis XI.

King Louis XL had actually been in Paris for two
days. He was to set out again two days later for his
fortress of Montilz-les-Tours. His visits to his good city
of Paris were rare and brief ; for he never felt that he had

WHiaiE LOUIS XI. SAYS HIS PRAYERS.

305 ,

enough trap-doors, gibbets, and Scotch archers about him
there.

He had that day come to sleep at the Bastille. The
great chamber, five fathoms square, which he had at the
Louvre, with its huge chimney-piece adorned with twelve
great beasts and thirteen great prophets, and his great
bed eleven feet by twelve, suited him but ill. He was
lost amid all tliese grandeurs. This good, homely king pre-
ferred the Bastille, with a tiny chamber and a sinqile bed.
And then, the Bastille was stronger than the Louvre.

This tiny room, which the king reserved to his own use
in the famous state-prison, was spacious enough, after all,
and occupied the topmost floor of a turret adjoining the
keep. It was a circular chamber, carpeted with mats of
lustrous straw, ^ ceiled with beams enriched with fleurs-
de-lis of gilded metal, with colored interjoists wainscoted
with rich woods studded with rosettes of white metal
painted a fine bright green, compounded of orpiment and
woad.

Tliere was but one window, a long arched opening lat-
ticed with brass wire and iron bars, and still further
darkened by beautiful stained glass emblazoned with the
arms of the king and queen, each pane of which was
wortli twenty-tyo pence.

There was but one entrance, a modern door, with sur-
based arch, hung with tapestry on the inside, and on the
outside decorated wdth a porch of bogwood, a frail struc-
ture of curiouvsly wrought cabinet-work, such as was very
common in old houses same hundred and fifty years ago.

Although they are disfiguring and cumbersome,” says

306

notke-dame.

Sauval. in despair, “ still, our old folk will not do away
with them, and retain them in spite ol everytning.

The room contained none of the furniture ordinarily
found in such an apartment, -neither benches, nor tres-
tles, nor common box stools, nor more elegant stools
mounted on posts and counter-posts, at four pence each.
There was only one chair, — a folding-chair with arms
and a very superb one it was: the wood was painted
with roses on a red ground, the seat was of searle
Spanish leather, trimmed with heavy silk fringe and
studded with countless golden nails. The solitary c laii
showed that but one person had a right to be seated m
that room. Beside the chair, and very near the window,
there was a table covered with a cloth embroidered with
figures of birds. Upon this table were a staudish spotted
with ink, sundry parchments, a few pens, and a chased
silver goblet. Farther away stood a stove, and a prayer-
desk of crimson velvet embossed with gold. Lastly, at the
back of the room there was a simple bed of yellow and
carnation-colored damask, without tinsel or lace, merely
a plain fringe. This bed, famous for having borne the
sleep — or sleeplessness — of Louis XL, might still be
seen two hundred years ago, at the house of a councillor
of state, where it was viewed by old l^Eadame
celebrated in “Cyrus” under the name of “Amcidia”
and of “ Morality Embodied.”

Such was the room known as “the retreat where Louis

of France says his prayers.”

At the moment when we introduce our reader to it, this
retreat was very dark. The curfew had rung an hour

WHERE LOUIS XL SAYS HIS PRAYERS. 307

before ; it was night/ and there was but one flickering wax
candle placed on the table to light flve persons grouped
about the room.

The first upon whom the direct rays of the candle fell
was a nobleiiiaii, magnificently dressed in scarlet breeches
and jerkin striped with silver, and a loose coat with padded
shoulders, made of cloth of gold brocaded in black. This
splendid costmne, upon which the ligld played, seemed to
be frosted with flame at every fold. The man who wore
it had his armorial bearings embroidered on liis breast in
gay colors, — a chevron with a deer passant at the base of
the shield. The escuteheoii was supported by an olive-
branch dexter and a buck’s horn sinister. This man wore
at his belt a rich dagger, the silver-gilt handle of which
was wrought in the shape of a crest, and surmounted by a
count’s coronet. He had an evil expression, a haughty
mien, and a proud bearing. At the first glance his face
revealed arrogance, at the second craft.

He stood bare-headed, a long scroll in his hand, behind
the arm-chair in which sat, his body awkwardly bent, his
knees crossed, his elbow on the table, a most ill-attired
person. Imagine, indeed, upon the luxurious Spanish
leather seat, a pair of knock knees, a couple of slender
shanks meagrely arrayed in black woollen knitted stiifi* a
body wrapped in a fustian coat edged with fur, which Jhad
far more skin than hair; finally, to crown the whole, a
greasy old hat, of the poorest quality of black clotli, stuck
round with a circlet of small leaden images. This, with
a dirty skull-cap, which showed scarce a single hair, was
all that could he seen of the seated personage. His head

308

NOTRE-DAME.

was bent so low upon his breast that nothing could be
distinguished of his face, whicli was wholly in shadow,
unless it might be the tip of his nose, upon which a ray
of light fell, and which was clearly a long one. By the
thinness of his wrinkled hand, he was evidently an old
man. Tiiis was Louis XL

Some distance behind them, two men clad in Flemish
fashion chatted together in low tones. They were not so
entirely in the shadow but that any one -who had been
present at the perfoi’rnance of Gringoire’s play could rec-
ognize them as two of the chief Flemish envoys, Guillaume
Eym, the wise pensionary of Ghent, and Jacques Coppe-
nole, the popular hosier. It will be remembered that
these two men were connected with Louis XL’s secret
policy.

Lastly, at the farther end of 'the room, near the door,
stood in the gloom, motionless as a statue, a sturdy man
with thick-set limbs, in military trappings, his doublet
embroidered with armorial bearings, whose square face,
with its goggle eyes, immense mouth, and ears hidden
under two broad penthouses of straight, lank hair, par-
took at once of the character of the dog and the tiger.

All were uncovered save the king.

The gentleman nearest to the king was reading a
lengthy document, to which his Majesty seemed listening
most attentively. The two Flemings whispered together.

''Zounds!’' grumbled Coppenole, "I am weary with
standing; is there no chair herej”

Eym replied by a shake of the head, accompanied by a
prudent smile.

WHERlEl LOUIS XI, SAYS HIS ^ PRAYERS.

30"9

Zouiids 1 ’V resmiied Coppenole, utterly miserable at
being obliged to lower his voice; I long to sit down on
the floor, with my legs crossed, in true hosier style, as I
do in iny own shop at home.”

“ Beware how you do so, Master Jacques.”

“ Bless me 1 Master Guillaume ! must ^ve be on oiir
feet forever here ? ”

Or on our knees,” said Eym.

At this moment the king spoke. They w^ere silent.

'"Fifty pence for the coats of our lackeys, and twelve
pounds for the cloaks of the clerks of our crown. That’s
it! pour out gold by the ton! Are you mad, Olivier?”

So saying, the old man lifted his head. The golden
shells of the collar of Saint Michel glistened about his neck.
The light of the candle fell full upon his thin, peevish
profile. He snatched the paper from his companion’s
hands.

" You will ruin us 1 ” he cried, running his hollow eye
over the scroll. " What is all this ? What need have we
for so vast an establishment ? Two chaplains at ten pounds
a month each, and an assistant at one hundred pence 1 A
valet at ninety pounds a year! Four head cooks at six-
score pounds a year each; a roaster, a soup-maker, a sauce-
maker, an under cook, a keeper of the stores, two stewards’
assistants, at ten pounds a month eacli 1 Two scullions at
eight pounds ! A groom and his two helpers at twent}^-
four pounds a month 1 A porter, a pavstry-cook, a baker,
two wagoners, each sixty j^ounds a year ! And the iarrier,
six-score pounds! And the master of our exchequer
chamber, twelve hundred pounds ! And the comptroller

310

KOfRE-DAME.

five hundred ! And I know not how many more ! ’T is
sheer madness 1 Our servants’ wages plunder France! All
the treasures of the Louvre will melt away before such a
wasting fire of expense ! We will sell our plate I And
next year, if God and Our Lady [here he raised his Init]
grant us life, we will take our diet-drinks from a pewter
pot!”

With these words he cast a glance at the* silver gob-
let which sparkled on the table. He coughed, and
continued, —

'' Master Olivier, princes wlio reign over great domains,
such as kings and emperors, should never suffer extrava-
gant living in their houses ; for thence the fire spreads to
the provinces. Therefore, Master Olivier, forget this not.
Our expenses increase yearly. The thing displeases us.
What, by the Eood! until 79 they never exceeded thirty-
six thousand pounds; in ’80 they amounted to forty-three
thousand six hundred and nineteen pounds, — I have the
figures ill my head; in ’81 they were sixty-six thou-
sand six hundred and eighty pounds; and this year, by
my faith ! they will come to eighty thousand pounds !
Doubled in four years I monstrous 1 ”

He paused for lack of breath ; then he went on
angrily,—

''I see around me none but people fattening on my
leanness ! You suck crowns from me at every pore ! ”

All were silent. His rage must be allowed free vent.
He continued: —

“It is like that petition in, Latin from the nobles
of France, that we would , re-establish what they call

WHERE LOUIS XI. SAYS HIS IHIAYERS. 311

the charges on the Crown ! Charges, indeed 1 crushing
charges 1 Ah, gentlemen ! you say that we are not a
king to reign clainfero nnllo^ bidiculario nidlo ! We will
show you, by the Eood ! whether we be a king or no 1 ”

Here he smiled with a sense of his power ; Iiis bad hu-
mor modei'ated, and lie turned towards the Flemings ;

''Mark you, gossip Guillaume, the head pantler,^ the
chief cellarer, the lord chamberlain, the lord seneschal, are
not worth so much as the meanest lackey ; remember that,
gossip Coppenole. They are good for nothing. As they
thus hang uselessly around tlie king, they remind me of
the four Evangelists about fhe dial of the great clock
on the Palace, which Philippe Brille has just done up as
good as new. They are gilded over, but they do not
mark the hour, and the hands go on as well without
tliem.”

, For a moment he seemed lost in thought, and added,
shaking his aged head: —

" Ho I ho I by Notre-Dame, I am no Philippe Brille, and
I will not re-gild my lordly vassals I Go on, Olivier ! ’’

The pei'son thus addressed took the scroll from his
royal masters hands, and began to read again in a loud
voice : —

"To Adam Tenon, clerk to the keeper of the seals
of the provosty of Paris, for the silver, fashioning, and
engraving of said seals, which have been new made by
reason of tlie others preceding being old and worn out,
and no longer fit for use,, twelve Paris pounds.

"To Guillaume Frere, the Sum of four pounds four Paris

^ in charge of the bread.

312

KOTB E-DAME.

pence for Ids labor and cost in nonrisldng and feeding the
pigeons in the two dovecots of the Hotel des Tonrnelles,
for the montlis of January, February, and March of this
present year; for the which he hath expended seven
sextaries of barley.

To a Gray Friar, for confessing a criminal, four Paris
pence.'’

The king listened in silence. From time to time he
coughed ; then he raised the goblet to his lips, and
swallowed a mouthful with a wry face.

''In this year have been made by order of the courts
and by sound of trumpet, in the public places of Paris,
fifty-six proclamations; the account yet to be made up.

“ For quest and search in sundry places, both in Paris
and elsewhere, for funds said to be concealed there, but
nothing found, forty-five Paris pounds."

“ A crown buried to unearth a penny 1 " said the king.

“For setting six panes of white glass at the H5tel
des Tournelles, in the place where the iron cage is, thir-
teen pence; for making and delivering, by the king's
command, on muster-day, four escutcheons with the arms
of our said lord wreathed all around with roses, six
pounds ; for two new sleeves to the king's old doublet,
twenty pence; for a box of grease to grease the king's
boots, fifteen farthings ; for rebuilding a sty to lodge tlie
king's black swine, thirty Paris pounds; sundry parti-
tions, planks, and gratings made for the safe-keeping of
the lions at the Hotel Saint-Pol, twenty-two pounds."

" Here be costly beasts," said Louis XI. " ISTever mind ;
'tis a luxury which befits a king. There is one big

WHERE LOUIS XI. SAYS HIS PRAYERS.

313

tawny lion that I love for his pretty tricks. Have you
seen him, Master Guillaume? Princes must needs keep
these rare wild beasts. We kings should have lions for
lapdogs, and tigers instead of cats. Grandeur beseems
a crown. In the time of Jupiter’s pagans, when the
people offered an hundred sheep and an hundred oxen
to the gods, emperors gave an hundred lions and an
hundred eagles. That was fierce and very fine. The
kings of France have ever had these roarings round
their throne; nevertheless, my subjects must do me the
justice to say that I spend far less money in that way
than my predecessors, and that I am much more moder-
ate as regards lions, bears, elephants, and leopards. Go
on, Master Olivier, We merely wished to say this much
to our Flemish friends.”

Guillaume Eym bowed low, while Coppenole, with his
* sullen air, looked like one of those bears to which his
Majesty referred. The king did not notice him. He wet
his lips witli the liquid in the goblet, and spat the
brew out again, saying, '' Faugh ! what a disagreeable
diet-drink!” The reader continued: —

''For feeding a rascally tramp, kept under lock and
key in tlie little cell at the shambles for six months,
until it sliould be decided what to do with him, six
pounds and four pence.”

“What’s that?” interrupted the king; “feed what
should he hanged ! By the Eood 1 I will not pay one
penny for Iris Iveep ! Olivier, settle the matter with Mas-
ter dTistouteville, and this very night make me prepara-
tions for this gallant’s wedding, with the gallows. Go on.”

su

KOTEE-DAME.

Olivier made a mark with his thumb-nail against the
item of the rascally tramp, and resumed: —

'"To Henriet Cousin, chief executioner of Paris, the
sum of sixty Paris pence, to him adjudged and ordered
by the lord provost of Paris, for having bought, by order
of the said provost, a broadsword for the execution and
decapitation of all persons condemned by tlie courts for
their demerits, and having it furnished with a scabbard
and all thereunto appertaining; and likewise for having
the old sword sharpened and repaired, it having been
broken and notched in doing justice upon my lord Louis
of Luxembourg, as herein more fully set down —

The king interrupted : Enough ; I cheerfully order ,
the sum to be paid. These are expenses which I never
regard ; I have never regretted such moneys. Continue.”

For repairing a great cage — ”

''Ah!” said the king, grasping the arms of his chair
with both hands, " I knew that I came here to the Bas-
tille for a purpose. Stay, Master Olivier ; I desire to see
this cage for myself. You’ may read the costs while I
examine it. Gentlemen of Flanders, come and look at
it; it is a curious sight,”

Then he rose, leaned upon his reader's arm, signed to
the mute who stood at the door to go before him, to the
two Flemings to follow him, and left the room.

The royal party was increased at the door of the
retreat hy men-at-arms weighed down with steel, and
slender pages bearing torches. It proceeded for some
time through the interior of the gloomy keep, perforated
with staircases and corridors in the thickness of the

WHEIiE LOUIS XL SAYS HIS PRAYERS,

walls. The captain of the Bastille walked at the head
of the procession, and ordered the gates to be thrown

open before the bent and feeble old
king, who coughed as he moved "
along.

At every wicket gate all heads were forced to stoop,
except that of the old man bowed by age. ''Hum!’' he
mumbled, for he had lost all his teeth, " we are all ready
for the door of the tomb. A low door needs a stooping
passenger.”

At last, after passing tlirough a final gate so encumbered
with locks that it took a quarter of an hour to open it,
they entered a lofty, spacious, vaulted hall, in the middle
of which they saw, by the light of the torches, a huge and
massive cube of masonry, iron, and wood. The interior
was hollow. It was one of those famous cages meant for
prisemers of state, which were known by the name of “the
king’s daughters.” In its sides were two or three small

316

NOTRE-BAME.

windows, so closely grated with heavy iron Imrs- that
the glass was entirely hidden. The door was a great flat
stone slab, such as are used for tombs, — one of those doors
used for entrance only. But here, the dead man was. a
living being.

Tlie king walked slowly around the little structure, care-
fully examining it, while Master Olivier, who followed him,
read aloud : —

“ Bor repairing a great cage of heavy wooden joists,
girders, and timbers, being nine feet long by eight in
breadth, and seven feet high between the planks, planed,
and clamped with strong iron clamps, which has been
placed in a room in one of the towers of the Bastille Saint-
Antoine, in which cage is put and kept, by command of our
lord the king, a prisoner formerly dwelling in a worn-out
and crazy old cage. Thei*e were used for the said new cage
ninety-six horizontal beams and fifty-two uprights, ten
girders eighteen feet long. ISTineteen carpenters were
employed for twenty days, in the court of the Bastille, to
square, cut, and fit all the said wood.*' ^

“ Quite fine heart of oak,” said the king, rapping on the
timber with his knuckles.

. There were used in this cage,” continued the
other, ‘'two hundred and twenty large iron clamps, of eight
ami nine feet, the rest of medium length, with the screws,
roller-bolts, and counter-bands requisite for said clamps,
all the aforesaid iron weighing three thousand seven hun-
dred and tliirty-five pounds ; besides eight large iron bolts
serving to fasten the said cage, with the nails and clamp-
irons, weighing all together two hundred and eigliteen

WI-IEEE LOUIS XI. SAYS' HIS PRAYERS. 317

pounds; not to mention the iron gratings for the windows
of the room wherein the cage was placed, the iron bars on
the door, and other items — «

''Here’s a mighty deal of iron,” said the king, "to re-
strain the lightness of one mind !”

"... The whole amounts to three lumdred and seven-
teen pounds five pence and seven farthings.”

" By the Eood ! ” exclaimed the king.

At this oath, which was Louis XI.’s favorite imprecation,
some one seemed to waken within the cage; chains rattled
loudly against the ^ wood- work, and a faint voice, which
appeared to issue from the tomb, cried : "Sire! Sire I
^Pardon ! ” But no one could see the person uttering these
words.

" Three hundred and seventeen pounds five pence and
seven farthings 1 ” repeated Louis XL

The piteous voice which issued from the cage had chilled
the blood of all present, even that of Master Olivier him-
self. The king alone appeared as if lie had not heard
it. At his command Master Olivier resumed his reading,
and his Majesty calmly continued his inspection of the
cage.

" Moreover, there has been paid to a mason who made
the holes to receive the window-bars, and the floor of the
room in which tlie cage stands, forasmuch as the floor
could not have borne- this cage by reason of its weight,
twenty-seven pounds and fourteen Paris pence — ”

The voice again began its moan : —

" Mercy, Sire 1 I swear that it was my lord Cardinal
of Angers, and not I, who plotted the treason.”

318

NOTEE-DAME.

'' The mason charges well 1 said the king. “ Go on,
Olivier."

Olivier continued : — *

^'To a joiner, for window-frames, bedstead, close stool,
and otlier items, twenty pounds two Paris pence — "

The voice continued likewise : —

“ Alas ! Sire 1 will you not hear me ? I protest that it
was not I who wrote that thing to niy lord of Guyeiine,
but his highness Cardinal Balue 1 "

The joiner is dear," observed the king. '' Is that all ? "

‘'No, Sire. To a glazier, for the window-panes in said
chamber, forty-six pence eight Paris farthings.’'

“ Have mercy. Sire ! Is it not enough that all my
worldly goods were given to my judges, my silver plate to
M. de Torcy, my books to Master Pierre Doriolle, my
tapestries to the Governor of Pioussillon ? I am innocent.
For fourteen years I have shivered in an iron cage. Have
mercy, Sire ! You will find your reward in heaven."

Master Olivier," said the king, “ what is the sum
total?"

“Three hundred and sixty-seven pounds eight pence
three Paris farthings,"

“ By'r Lady 1 " cried the king. “ What an extravagant
cage ! "

He snatched the scroll from Master Olivier’s hands, and
began to reckon up the items hiniBelf upon his fingers,
looking by turns at the paper and the cage. Meantime,
the prisoner’s sobs were , plainly to be heard. It was a
doleful sound in the darkness, and the by-standers paled
as they gazed into one another’s faces.

' , WHERE LOUIS: XL :SAYS^: HIS; I'RxlYERS. ;31'9,

Fourteen years. Sire I full fourteen years ! ever since
the month of April, 1469. In the name of the Blessed
Mother of God, Sire, hear me! You liave enjoyed the
warmth of the sun all these years. Shall I, poor wretch,
never again behold the light of day? Pity me, Sire!
Be merciful. Clemency is a goodl}^ and a royal virtue,
which turns aside the stream of wrath. Does your Ma-
jesty believe that it will greatly content a king in the hour
of his death, to reflect that he has never let any offence go
unpunished? Moreover, Sire, I never did betray your
Majesty; it was my Lord of Augers. And I wear about
my leg a very heavy chain, and a great ball of iron at the
end of it, far heavier than is reasonable. Ah ! Sire ! have
pity upon me ! ”

Olivier,’' said the king, shaking his head, ‘'I observe
that these fellows charge me twenty pence the hogshead
for plaster, which is worth only twelve. Have this account
corrected,”

He turned liis back on the cage, and prepared to leave
the room. The miserable prisoner guessed by the receding
torches and noise that the king was departing.

Sire I Sire 1 ” he cried in tones of despair.

The door closed. He saw nothing more, he heard
nothing save the harsh voice of the jailer singing in
his ears the song : —

‘^Master Jean Balne
Has quite lost view
Of his bishoprics cherished.

My lord of Terdnn

Has not a single one ; •

Every one hath perished.”

320

NOTRE-BAME.

The king silently reascended to liis retreat, and his
train followed him, terrified by the prisoner's last groans.
All at once his Majesty turned to the governor of the
Bastille.

'' By the way/' said he, was there not some one in that
cage ? ”

Zounds, Sire, yes 1" replied the governor, lost in amaze
at such a question.

"Who, then?"

" The Bishop of Verdun."

The king was better aware of this than any one else;
but this was his way.

/'Ah 1 " said he, with an innocent semblance of think-
ing of it for the first time, "Guillaume de Harancourt,
the friend of Cardinal Balue, — a merry devil of a
bishop ! "

A few moments later the door of the retreat was re-
opened, then closed again upon the five persons whom we
saw there at the beginning of this chapter, and who re-
sumed their places, their low-voiced conversation, and their
former attitudes.

During the king's absence a number of despatches had
been laid on the table, and he now broke the seals. Then
he rapidly read them one after the other, motioned to Mas-
ter Olivier, who seemed to perform the office of his min-
ister, to take a pen, and without imparting the contents of
the despatches to him, began to dictate answers in an un-
dertone, the latter writing them down, kneeling uncom-
fortably at the table.

Guillaume Eyra watched him.

WHERE LOUIS XL SAYS HIS PRAYERS. 321

The king spoke so low that the Flemings caught but
a few detached and scarcely intelligible fragments, such
as i — — ,

. . . keep up fertile places by comnierce and sterile
ones by manufactures. Show the English lords our four
bombards, the London, Brabant, Boiirg-en'-Bresse, and
Saint-Omer. . . . Artilleiy occasions war to be more
wisely waged at the present time. . . . To Monsieur de
Bressuire, our friend. . . . Armies cannot be maintained
without tribute,” etc.

Once he raised bis voice : —

“By the Eood I the King of Sicily seals his letters
with yellow wax, like a king of France. We may be
wrong to allow liim this privilege. My fair cousin of
Burgundy gave no armorial bearings upon a field gules.
Tlie greatness of a house is insured by holding its pre-
rogatives intact. Note that, gossij) Olivier,”

Again : —

“ Oho ! ” said lie, “ an important message this ! What
would our bi'other the emperor have ? ” And running his
eye ovei' the missive, he interrupted his reading with
constant exclamations : Surely the Germans are so great
and powerful that T is scarcely credible. But we are not
unmindful of the old proverb : The finest county is
Flanders ; the fairest duchy, Milan ; the most beauteous
kingdom, France. Is it not so, Sir Flemings ?”

This time Coppenole bowed with Guillaume Rym. The
hosier's patriotism was tickled.

The last despatch made Louis XI. frown.

“ What 's this ? ” he‘ exclaimed. “ Complaints and requi-

■^ 32 , 2 :

KOTRE-DAME.

sitions against our garrisons in Picardy ! Olivier, write
with speed to Marshal de Eouaiilt : That discipline is re-
laxed. That the men-at-arms of the ordnance, tlie nobles
of the ban, the free-archers, and the Swiss guards do infi-
nite injury to the peasants. That the soldiers, not content
with the goods which they find in the houses of the tillers
of the soil, constrain them, by heavy blows of bludgeons
and sticks, to seek throughout the town for wine, fish,
spices, and other articles of luxury. That the king is well
aware of all this. That we intend to preserve our people
from all unseemly acts, larceny, and pillage. That this is
our sovereign will, by Our Lady ! That, moreover, it likes us
not that any minstrel, barber, or serving man at arms should
go arrayed like a prince, in velvet, silken cloth, and rings
of gold. That these vanities are hateful in the sight of
(■irod. That we content ourselves — we who are a gentle-
man of high degree — with one cloth doublet at sixteen
pence the Paris ell That soldiers’ servants may well come
down to that also. We command and order these things.
To Monsieur de Rouault, our friend. Good 1 ”

He dictated this letter in a loud voice, in a firm tone,
and by fits and starts. Just as he ended it, the door
opened and admitted a new personage, who rushed into
the room in extreme alarm, shouting, —

Sire ! Sire ! the people of Paris have risen in revolt ! ”
The grave face of Louis XI. was convulsed ; but every
visible sign of emotion passed away like a tlasli of light-
ning. He restrained himself, and said with calm
severity, — ■

Gossip Jacques, you enter somewhat abruptly ! ”

WHERE' LOUIS XI. SAYS 'HIS PRAYERS.

323

“Sire! Sire! there is a revolt !” replied tlie breathless
gossip Jacques.

The king, who had risen, took him roughly by the arm,
and whispered in his ear in a manner to be heard by hini
alone, with concentrated rage, and a sidelong glance at the
Flemings, —

“ Hold your tongue, or speak low 1 ”

The new-comer understood, and began to tell him in a
low voice a very incoherent tale, to which the king listened
with perfect composure, while Guillaume Eyni drew
Coppenole’s attention to the new-comer's face and dress,
his furred hood his short epitoge^ {epi-

togia curta), his black velvet gown, which bespoke a
president of the Court of Accounts.

This person had no sooner given the king a few details,
than Louis XL cried with a burst of laughter, --

“ Indeed ! Speak up boldly, gossip Coictier ! Why do
you talk so low ? Our Lady knows that we hide nothing
from our good Flemish friends."

“ But, Sire — ”

“ Speak up boldly 1 "

Gossip Coictier was dumb with surprise.

“ So," resumed the king, — “ speak, sir, — there is a
commotion among the common people in our good city
of Paris ? "

';:v'i;:f;Yes,;::Sire.’^^^

“ And it is directed, you vsay, against the bailiff of the
Palace of Justice?"

“It looks that way," said the gossip, who still stam-

1 Cap worn by presidents of the ancient Parliament.

NOTKE-BAME,

mered and hesitated, utterly astounded by the sudden and
inexplicable change which had been wrought in the king’s
sentiments.

Louis XL added: “Where did the watch encounter
the mob ? ”

“ Moving from the chief haunt of the beggars and
vagrants toward the Pont-aux-Changeurs. I met them
myself on my way hither to execute your Majesty’s
orders. I heard certain of the number shouting, ‘ Down
with the bailiff of the Palace 1 ’ ”

“ And what is their grievance against the bailiff? ”

“ Ah ! ” said gossip Jacques, “ that he is their lord.

“Eeally!"

“Yes, Sire. They are rascals . from the Court of Mira-
cles. They have long inveighed against the bailiff, whose
vassals they are. They refuse to recognize him either as
Justiciary or road surveyor.”

“Ay, say you so!” returned the king, with a smile of
satisfaction which he vainly strove to disguise.

“ In all their petitions to Parliament,” added gossip *
Jacques, “ they claim that they have but two masters, —
your Majesty and their God, who is, I believe, the Devil.”

“ Hah ! ” said the king.

He rubbed his hands; he laughed that inward laugh
which makes the face radiant ; he could not disguise his
joy, although he tried at times to compose himself. Ho
one understood his mood, not even Master Olivier. He
was silent for a moment, with a pensive but contented air.

“ Are they strong in numbers ? ” he asked suddenly.

“ Indeed they are, Sire,” replied gossip Jacques.

WHE3:iE LOUIS XL SAYS HIS IHIAYERS.

32 : 5 '

How many ? ’’

“ At least six thousand.”

The king could not help exclaiming, Good ! ” He
added, '^Are they armed?”

With scythes, pikes, hackbuts, mattocks, and all sorts
of dangerous weapons.”

The king seemed by no means alarmed at this account.
Gossip Jacques felt obliged to add, —

If your Majesty send not promptly to the bailiffs aid,
he is lost.”

We will send,” said the king, with an assumed expres-
sion of seriousness, It is well. Certainly we will send.
The bailiff is our friend. Six thousand 1 They are deter-
mined knaves. Their boldness is marvellous, and we are
greatly wroth at it; but we have few people about us
to-night. It will be time enough in the morning.”

Gossip Jacques exclaimed, Straightway, Sire ! The
bailiff s house may be sacked twenty times over, the seig-
niory profaned, and the bailiff hanged, ere then. For the
love of God, Sire, send before to-morrow morning 1 ”

The king looked him in the face. '' I said to-morrow.”
It was one of those looks which admit of no reply. After
a pause, Louis XI. again raised his voice. “ Gossip Jacques,
you must know — What was — ” He corrected himself.
'' What is the bailiffs feudal jurisdiction ? ”

Sire, the bailiff of the Palace has jurisdiction from
the Rue de la Calandre to the Rue de FHerberie, the
Place Saint-Michel, and the places commonly called the
MAreaux, situated near the church of Xotre-Dame des
Champs [here the king lifted the brim of his hat], which

326

NOTRE-DAME.

residences are thirteen in number; besides the Court of
Miracles, the lazaretto known as the Baiilieue, and all the
highway beginning at this lazar-house and ending at the
Porte Sairit“-Jacq[aes. Of these divers places he is road-
surveyor, high, low, and middle justiciary, and lord
paramount/'

Hey-day I " said the king, scratching his left ear with
his right hand ; “ that is a goodly slice of my city. And
so the bailiff was king of all that?”

This time he did not correct himself. He continued to
muse, and as if speaking to himself, said, —

Have a care, sir bailiff! You had a very pretty piece
of our Paris in your grasp.”

All at once he burst forth : ‘‘ By the Eood ! Who are
all these people who claim to be commissioners of high-
ways, justiciaries, lords, and masters in our midst; who
have their toll-gate in every bit of field, their gibbet and
their hangman at every cross-road among our people, in
such fashion that, as the Greek believed in as many gods
as there were fountains, and the Persian in as many as he
saw stars, the Frenchman now counts as many kings as he
sees gallows ? By the Lord ! this thing is evil, and the
confusion likes me not. I would fain know whether it be
by the grace of God that there are other inspectors of high-
ways in Paris than the king, other justice than that ad-
ministered by our Paiiiament, and other emperor than
ourselves in this realm ! By the faith of my soul 1 the
day must come when France shall know but one king, one
lord, one judge, one headsman, even as there is but one
God in Paradise ! ”

■ WHERE LOUIS XL SAYS/H-IS' FRAyERS. : , 327

He again raised Ms cap/ anji went on, still meditating^
with the look and tone of a hunter loosing and urging on
his pack of dogs: ''Good! iny people! bravely done!
destroy these false lords ! do your work. At them, boys 1
at them 1 Plunder them, capture them, strip them! Ah!
you would fain be kings, gentlemen ? On, my people,
on!’^

Here he stopped abruptly, bit his lip, as if to recall a
thought which had half escaped him, bent his piercing
eye in turn upon each of the five persons who stood
around him, and all at once> seizing his hat in both hands,
and staring steadily at it, he thus addressed it: "Oh, I
would burn you if you knew my secret thoughts 1 ”

Then again casting about him the attentive, anxious
glance of a fox returning by stealth to his earth, he
added,—

"It matters not; we will succor the bailiff. Unfortu-
nately, we have but few troops here to send forth at this
moment against* so large a populace. We must needs
wait until to-morrow. Order shall be restored in the City,
and all who are taken shall be strung up on the spot.''

" By the bye, Sire ! ” said gossip Coictier, " I forgot it
in my first dismay, — the watch has caught two stragglers
of the band. If it please your Majesty to see these men,
they are liere,"

" If it please me to see them !” cried the king. "How,
by the Hood I do you forget such things ! Pam quickly,
you, Olivier! go and fetch them.”

Master Olivier went out, and returned a moment after
with the two prisoners, surrounded by archers of the ord-

328

NOTEE-DAME.

nance. The first had a fat, stupid face, with a rlmuken
and astonished stare. He was dressed in rags, and bent
his knee and dragged his foot as he walked. The sec-
ond was a pale, smiling fellow, whom the reader already
knows.

The king studied them for an instant without speaking,
tlien abruptly addressed the first : —

'' Your name ? ”

Gieffroy Pincebourde.”

'' Your business ? ”

Vagabond.”

What part did you mean to play in this damnable
revolt?”

The Vagabond looked at the king, swinging his arms
with a dull look. His was one of those misshapen heads,
where the understanding flourishes as ill as the flame
beneath an extinguisher.

I don't know,'’ he said. ‘‘ The others went, so I went
too.”

Did you not intend outrageously to attack and plunder
your lord the bailiff of the Palace ? ”

I know that they were going to take something from
some one. That’s all I know.”

A soldier showed the king a pruning-bill, which had
been found upon the fellow.

“Do you recognize this weapon?” asked the king.

“Yes, it is my bill; I am a vine-dresser.”

“And do you acknowledge this man as your compan-
ion?” added Louis XL, pointing to the other prisoner,

“ Fo. I do not know him.”

WHERE LOUIS XI SAYS HIS PRAYERS.

329

“ Enough,” said the king. And beckoning to the silent,
motionless person at the door, whom we have already
pointed out to our readers: —

'' Friend Tristan, here is a man for you.”

Tristan rHerniite bowed. He gave an order in low
voice to two archers, who led away the poor Vagrant.

Meantime, the king approached the second prisoner,
who was in a profuse perspiration. Your name ? ”

Sire, Pierre Gringoire.”

Your trade ?”

‘‘ A philosopher, Sire 1 ”

“How dared you, varlet, go and beset our friend the
bailiff of the Palace, and what have you to say about this
uprising of the people?”

“ Sire, I had nought to do with it.”

“ Come, come, rascal 1 were you not taken by the watch
in this evil company?”

“ No, Sire ; there is a mistake. It was an accident. I
write tragedies. Sire, I entreat your Majesty to hear me.
I am a poet. It is the melancholy whim of people of my
profession to roam the streets after dark. I passed this
way to-night. It %vas a mere chance. I was wrongfully
arrested ; I am innocent of this civil storm. Your Ma-
jesty sees that the Vagabond did not recognize me. I
conjure your Majesty — ”

“ Silence I” said the king, betwixt tw^o gulps of his diet-
drink. “ You stun me,”

Tristan THermite stepped forward, and pointing to
Gringoire, said, —

“ Sire, may we hang this one too ? ”

330

NOTRE-DAME.

It was the first time that he liad spoken.

'"Pooh!** negligently answered the king. see no
reason to the contrary.’'

'' But I see a great many ! " said Gringoire.

Our philosopher was at this moment greener than any
olive. He saw by the king’s cold and indifferent manner
that his only resource was in something very pathetic, and
he threw himself at the feet of Louis XI., exclaiming with
frantic gestures, —

''Sire, your Majesty will deign to hear me. Sire, let
not your tluinders fall upon so small a thing as 1 1 The
thunderbolts of God never strike a lettuce. Sire, you are
an august and very mighty monarch ; have pity on a poor
honest man, who would find it harder to kindle a revolt
than an icicle to emit a spark. Most gracious lord, mag-
nanimity is a virtue meet for kings and royal beasts,
Alas ! rigor does but anger the minds of men ; the fierce
blasts of winter could not make the traveller doff his
cloak, while the sun shining down, little by little warmed
him to such a degree that he stripped to his shirt. Sire,
you are the sun. I protest to you, my sovereign lord and
master, that I am not of the company of the Vagrants.

I am neither disorderly nor a thief. Eebellion and bri-
gandage are not of Apollo’s train. I am not one to rush
into those clouds which burst in thunders of sedition, I
am a faithful vassal of your Majesty. A good subject -
should feel the same jealousy for the glory of his king
that the husband feels for the honor of his wife,
the same affection with which the son responds to his
father’s love he should burn with zeal for ])is house,

WHERE LOUIS XL SAYS HIS PRAYERS.

331

ibr the increase of his service. Any other passion which
possessed him would be mere madness, SucIl Sire, are
my political maxims. Do not, therefore, judge me to be
a rebel and a plunderer, by my ragged dress. If you

will but pardon me. Sire, I will wear it threadbare at
the knees in praying to God for you night and morn-
ing ! Alas ! I am not .exceeding rich, ’t is true. I am
indeed ratlier poor; but not vicious, for all that. It is

: 332 ;

NOTRE-DAME.

not my fault. Every one knows that great wealth is
not to be derived from literature, and that the most ac-
complished writers have not always much fire in wunter.
Pettifoggers get all the grain, and leave nothing but the
chaff for the rest of the learned professions. There are
forty most excellent proverbs about the tattered cloak of
the philosopher. Oh, Sire, clemency is the only liglit
which can illumine the interior of a great soul! Clem-
ency bears the torch for all the other virtues. Without
her, they are but blind, and gropers after Ch,)d. Mercy,
which is the same thing as clemency, produces those
loving subjects who are the most potent body-guard of
princes. What matters it to you, — to you whose majesty
dazzles all who beliold it, — if tliere be one poor man
the more upon the earth, a poor innocent philosopher
floundering in the darkness of calamity, with an empty
stomach and an empty purse ? Besides, Sire, I am a
scholar. Great kings add a pearl to tlieir crown when
they encourage letters. Hercules did not disdain the
title of Musagetes. Matthias Corvinus favored Jean of
Monroyal, the ornament of mathematics. Now, it is a
poor way of protecting letters, to hang the learned.
What a blot upon Alexander's fame if he had hanged
Aristotle 1 The deed would not have been a tiny patch
upon the visage of his reputation to enhance its beauty,
but a malignant ulcer to disfigure it Sire, I wrote a '
most fitting epithalamium for the Lady of Flanders, and
my lord the most august Dauphin. That is no fire-
brand of rebellion. Your Majesty sees that I am no
mere scribbler, that I have studied deeply, and that I

WHERE LOUIS XI. SAYS HIS PRAYERS-

333

have much natural eloquence. Pardon me, Sire. By so
doing, you will perform an act of gallantry to Our Lady ;
and I vow that I am mightily frightened at the very
idea of being hanged!”

So saying, the much distressed Griiigoire kissed the
king’s slippers, and Guillaume Ilyin whispered to Coppe-
nole, ''He does well to crawl upon the floor. Kings
are like Jupiter of Crete : they have no ears but in their
feet.” And, regardless of the Cretan Jove, the hosier
responded, with a grave smile, his eye fixed on Griii-
goire : " Oh, 'tis well done 1 I fancy I hear Councillor
Hugonet begging me for mercy.”

When Gringoire paused at last for lack of breath, he
raised his head, trembling, to the king, who w-as scratch-
ing witli his nail a spot on the knee of his breeches ;
then his Majesty drank from the goblet of ptisan. He
spoke not a word, however, and the silence tortured
Gringoire. At last the king looked at him, "What a
dreadful bawler ! ” said he. Then, turning towards Tristan
rilermite: "Bah! let him go! ”

Gringoire fell backwards, overcome with joy.

" Scot-free ! ” grumbled Tristan. * Don’t your Majesty
want me to cage him for a while?”

" Friend,” rejoined Louis XI., " do you think it is for
such birds as these that we have cages made at an expense
of three hundred and sixty-seven pounds eight pence
three fartluiigs ? Let this wanton rascal depart inconti-
nently, ami dismiss him with a beating.”

" Oh,” cried Gringoire, "what a noble king 1” ,

And for fear of a contrary order, he hastened towards

334

KOTKE-DAME.

the door, which Tristan opened for liim with a very bad
grace. The soldiers followed, driving him before them
with sturdy blows, which Gringoire bore like the true
Stoic philosopher that he was.

The king's good humor, since the revolt against the
bailiff was announced to him, appeared in everything he
did. This unusual clemency was no mean proof of it.
Tristan THermite, in his corner, wore the surly look of a
dog who has seen a bone, but had none.

The king, meantime, merrily drummed the march of
Pont-Aiidemer with his fingers on the arm of his chair.
He was a dissembling prince, but more skilled in hiding
his troubles than his joy. These outward manifesta-
tions of delight at any good news sometimes went to
extraordinary lengths, — as on the death of Charles the
Bold, wlien he vowed a silver balustrade to Saint-Martin
of Tours ; and on his accession to the throne, when he
forgot to order his father’s obsequies.

Ha, Sire 1” suddenly exclaimed Jacques Ooictier, what
has become of that sharp fit of illness for which your
Majesty summoned me ? ”

Oh,'’ said the king, indeed, I suffer greatly, good
gossip. I have a ringing in my ears, and cruel pains in
my chest.”

Coictier took the king’s hand, and began to feel his
pulse with a knowing air.

'' See, Coppenole,” said Eym in a low voice ; there he
is, between Coictier and Tristan. They make up his entire
court, —a doctor for himself,; a hangman for tlie rest of
the world!”

WHERE LOUIS XL SAYS HIS PRAYERS.

335

As he felt the king’s pulse, Coictier assumed a look of
more aud more alarm. Louis XI. watched him with some

anxiety. Coictier’s face darkened visibly. The Idug’s
ieeljle liealth was the worthy man’s Only source of in-
come, and lie made the most of it.

Dh, oh 1 he muttered at last, '' This is serious
enough.”

336

HOTEE-BAME.

“Is it not?” said the frightened king.

'^Fulsics oreber, anhelam, crepitans, irregularis,'' added
the physician,

“By the Rood I"

“ This might take a man off in less than three days.”

“ By h Lady I ” cried the king. “ And the remedy, good
gossip ? ”

“ I must reflect, Sire.”

He examined the king’s tongue, shook his head, made a
wry face, and in the midst of these affectations said sud-
denly, —

“ Zounds, Sire, I must tell you that there is a receiver-
ship of regales ^ vacant, and that I have a nephew.”

“I give my receivership to your nephew, gossip Jacques/
replied the king; “but cool this fire in my breast.”

“ Since your Majesty is so graciously inclined,” rejoined
the doctor, “ you will not refuse me a little help towards
building my house in the Eue Saint- Aiidrd des Arcs.”

“ Hey ! ” said the king.

“ I have come to the end of my means,” continued the
doctor, “and it would really be a pity that my house
should have no roof ; not for the sake of the house, which
is very plain and ordinary, but for the paintings by Jehan
Fourbault, which enliven the walls. There is a Diana
flying in the air, so excellently done, so delicate, so dainty,
so natural in action, the head so nicely coifed and crowned
with a crescent, the flesh so white, that she leads into
temptation ail those who study her too curiously. There
is also a Ceres. She, too, is a, very lovely divinity. She

1 Royal prerogative of a tax oa ecclesiastical rcveiuies. ~ Tii.

WHERE LOUIS XI. SAYS HIS FEAYEBa 837

is seated upon sheaves of grain, and crowned with a gay
garland of wheat-ears intertwined with purple goat’s-
beard and other tiowers. Nothing was ever seen more
amorous than her eyes, rounder than her legs, nobler
than her mien, or more graceful than her draperies. She
is one of the most innocent and perfect beauties ever
produced by mortal brush.”

'' Wretch 1 ” groaned Louis XL ; what are you driving
at ? ”

“ I must have a roof over these paintings, Sire ; and al-
though it will cost but a trifle, I have no more money.”

'' How much will your roof cost ? ”

“Why, a roof of copper, embellished and gilded, two
thousand pounds, at the utmost.”

“ Ah, the assassin ! ” cried the king ; “ he never draw's
me a tooth that is not priceless.”

“ Am I to have my roof ? ” said Coictier.

“ Yes ; and go to the devil ! but cure me first.”

Jacques Coictier bowed low and said, —

“ Sire, a repellent alone can save you. We will apply
to your loins the great specific, composed of cerate,
Armenian bole, white of egg, vinegar, and .oil. You will
continue your diet-drink, and we will answer for your
Majesty.”

A lighted candle attracts more than one moth. Master
Olivier, seeing the king so liberally inclined, and thinking
the moment opportune, advanced in his turn : “ Sire 1 ”

“ What is it now ? ” said Louis XL
“ Sire, your Majesty know^s that Master Simon Eadin is
dead ? ”

338

NOTRE-DAMB.

“Well?”

“ He was King’s Councillor for the Treasury. ’

“ Well 1 ”

“ Sire, his post is vacant.”

As he said this, the haughty face of Master Olivier
lost its arrogant look, and assumed a mean and grovelling
expression. This is the only change of which a courtier’s
features are capable. The king looked him full in the face,
and said dryly, “ I understand.”

He added, — • < mu

“ Master Olivier, Marshal Boueicaut once said, ‘ There

are no good gifts save those from the king, no good fishing
save in the sea.’ I see that you are quite of his opinion.
Now, hear this ; we have an excellent memory. In ’68, we
made vou groom of our chamber ; in ’69, keeper of the
castle of the Pont Saint-Cloud, at a salary of one hundred
pounds Tours (you wished them to be Paris pounds);
in November, ’73, by letters given at Gergeole, we ap-
pointed you keeper of the woods at Vincennes, in place
of Gilbert Acle, esquire ; in ’75, warden of the forest of
Eouvray-lez-Saiiit-Cloiid, in the place of Jacques Le Maire ,
in ’78, we graciously settled upon you, by letters-patent
sealed with green wax, a rental of ten Paris pounds, for
yourself and your wife, to be derived from the Place-
aux-Marchands, situated in the Saint-Germain School ; in
79, warden of the forest of Senart, in place of that poor
Jehan Daiz ; then, ca,ptain of the Chateau de Loches ; then,
governor of Saint-Quentin ; then, captain of the I’ont de
Meulan, of which you style yourself count; of the five
pence fine paid by every barber who shall shave a cus-

WHEKE LOUIS XL SAYS HIS PRAYERS.

339

ioiner upon a holiday, three pence go to you, and we take
tiie remainder. We were pleased to change your name
of Le Mauvais,^ which too strongly resembled your face.
In 74, we granted you, to the great displeasure of our
nobles, armorial bearings of countless hues, which make
your breast shimmer like that of a peacock. By the Eood !
are you not sated yet ? Is not the draught of fishes fine
enough, and miraculous enough ; and do you not fear
lest another salmon should sink your boat? Pride will
be your ruin, my friend. Pride is always hard pressed by
ruin and shame. Consider this, and be silent.’’

These words, uttered in a severe tone, restored its wonted
insolence to Master Olivier’s face.

“ Good ! ” he muttered almost audibly ; it is plain that
the king is ailing to-day; he gives the doctor everything.”

Louis XI., far from being irritated by this sally, replied
with much gentleness: “Stay; I forgot that I had also
made you rny ambassador to Mistress Marie at Ghent Yes,
gentlemen,” added the king, turning to the Flemings,
“ this fellow has been an ambassador. There, my gossip,”
he continued, addressing Master Olivier, “ let us not quar-
rel ; we are old friends. It is very late ; we have finished
our work. Shave me.”

Our readers have doubtless ere now recognized in
Master Olivier the dread Figaro wham Providence, the
greatest of all dramatists, so artistically added to the long
and bloody comedy of Louis XI.’s reign. This is not the
place for us to attempt any portrait of tins strange figure.
The royal barl:)er went by three names. At court he was

340

KOTRE-DAM'R.

politely termed Olivier le Daiiu ; by the people, Olivier le
Diabie : his real name was Olivier le Maiivais.

Olivier le Mauvais, then, stood motionless, casting-
sulky glances at the king, and looking askance at Jacques
Coiotier.

“ Yes, yes ; the doctor ! ’' he muttered,

“ Well, yes, the doctor ! ’’ rejoined Louis XI., with rare
good-nature; ''the doctor has more influence than you.
That is natural enough ; he has a hold upon our whole
body, while you only take us by the chin. Tliere, my
poor barber, cheer up. Why, what would you say, and
what would become of your office, if 1 were such a king
as King Chilpdric, whose favorite trick it was to pull Ids
beard through his hand ? Come, gossip, look to your
work ; shave me I Go, fetch the necessary tools.”

Olivier, seeing that the king was in a jesting mood, and
that it was impossible to put him. out of temper, left the
room to obey his orders, grumbling as lie went.

The king rose, stepped to the window, and suddenly
opening it with strange agitation, clapped his hands,
exclaiming, —

" Oh, yes, there is a red glow in the sky over the City 1
The bailiff is burning ; it can be nothing else. Ah, my
good people ! kis thus at last you help me to crush their
lordships ! ”

Then, turning to the Flemings : '' Gentlemen, come and
look. Is not that a fire which flares so high ? ”

The two men of Ghent approached.

" A great fire ” said Guillaume Kym,

"Oh,” added Coppenole, . whose eyes flashed, "that

WHERBI' LOUIS. XL SAYS HIS PRAYERS.

341

reminds me of the burning of the lord of Hymbercoiirt’s
house! There must be a fine riot yonder T’

''Do you think soj Master Coppenole And the face
of Louis XL was almost as full of joy as that of the
hosier. " ’T will be hard to suppress it, eh ?

" By the Mass, Sire 1 your Majesty will make great gaps
in many a company of troops in doing it.”

" Oh, L 1 that ’s quite another thing,” rejoined the king.
‘Mf I chose — ”

The hosier answered boldly, —

"If -this rebellion be what I suppose, you may choose
to no purpose, * Sire.”

" Friend,” said Louis XL, " two companies of my ord-
nance and the discharge, of a serpentine would win an
easy victory over the groundlings.”

The hosier, in spite of the signs made to him by
Guillaume Eym, seemed determined to oppose the king.

" Sire, the Swiss were groundlings too. My lord duke
of Burgundy was a great gentleman, and he despised that
vulgar mob. At the battle of Grandson he cried, ' Gun-
ners, fire upon those low-lived villains ! ’ and he swore by
Saint George. But magistrate Scharnachtal fell xipon the
proud duke with his club and his people, and at the on-
slaught of the peasants with their bulUiides, the brilliant
Burgundian army was broken like a pane of glass by a
stone. Many knights were killed that day by base
clowns ; and my lord of Chateau-Guyon, the grandest noble
in Burgundy, was found dead beside his great gray charger
in a small marshy meadow.”

"Friend/' replied the king, " you talk of battles. This

342

NOTUB-DAME.

is only a mutiny ; and I will quell it with a single frown
whenever it pleases me.”

The other answered indiflerently, —

'' That may be, Sire. In that case it will merely be be-
cause the people's hour has not yet come.”

Guillaume Eym felt obliged to interfere: —

''Master Goppenole, you are speaking to a powerful
king.”

" I know it,” gravely answered the hosier.

" Let him talk, friend Eym,” said the king. " I like
such frankness. My father, Charles VI L, said that .Truth
was sick. I, for my part, thouglit she had died, without a
confessor. Master Coppenole lias undeceived me.”

Then, laying his hand familiarly upon Ooppenole's shoul-
der, he added, —

" You were saying, Master Jacques — ”

" I was saying, Sire, that perhaps you were right, — that
the people's hour had not yet come in this land.”

Louis XL looked searchingly at him : —

" And when will that hour come, sirrah ? ”

“ You will hear it strike.”

« By what clock, pray ? ”

Coppenole, with his homely, peaceful face, drew the
king to the window.

" Listen, Sire ! Here you have a donjon, a bell-tower,
cannon, burghers, soldiers. When the bell rings, when
the cannon growl, when the donjon Mis with a crasli,
when burghers and soldiers shout and slay one another,
then the hour will strike.”

The king's face became dark and thoughtful For an

WHERE LOUIS XI. SAYS HIS PRAYERS.

343

instant lie stood silent ; then he gently patted the thick
donjon wall, as he might have caressed the flank of his
favorite horse.

‘'Oh, no r' he said; “you will not crumble so easily,
will you, my good Bastille V’

Then, turning with an abrupt gesture to the daring
Fleming,—

“ Did you ever see a revolt, Master Jacques ?

“ I made one,” said the hosier.

“ And how,” said the king, “‘do you set to work to make
a revolt ? ”

/‘Ah!” replied Coppenole, “it is not very difficult.
There are a hundred ways of doing it. In the first place,
discontent must be rife in the town ; that is not an im-
cornmon occurrence. And then you must consider tlie
character of the inhabitants. The men of Ghent are
always ready to rebel; they always love the prince’s
son, never the prince. Well, I will suppose that one
morning somebody comes into my shop and says : Friend
Coppenole, this thing or that thing has liai^pened, — the
Lady of Flanders is resolved to maintain the Cabinet;
the high bailiff has doubled the tax on vegetables, or some-
thing else ; whatever you please. I drop my work on
the spot ; I leave my shop, and I run out into the street,
crying, ‘ Storm and sack ! ’ There is always, some empty
hogshead lying about. I mount upon it, and I proclaim
aloud, in the first words that come to me, all that dis-
tresses me ; and when you belong to the people. Sire, there
is always something to distress you. Then there is a gath-
ering of the clans ; there are shouts ; the alarm-bell rings ;

344

NOTRE-DAME.

the people disarm the troops and arm themselves; the
marketmeii join in ; and so it goes on. And it will al-
ways be so, so long as there are nobles in the seigniories,
burghers in the towns, and peasants in the country.”

‘'And against whom do you rebel in this way ?” asked
the king. "Against your bailiffs; against your liege-
lords?”

" Sometimes ; that depends on circumstances. Against
the duke, too, at times.”

Louis XI. reseated himself, and said with a smile, —

" Ah 1 here tliey have got no farther than the bailiffs.”
At this instant Olivier le Daim returned. He was
followed by two pages carrying various articles of the
king’s toilet; but what struck Louis XI. was the fact
that he was also accompanied by the provost of Paris
and the captain of the watch, who seemed dismayed.
The spiteful barber also looked dismayed, but was inwardly
pleased. He was the first to speak: —

"Sire, I crave your pardon for the disastrous news I
bring 1 ”

The king turned so quickly that he tore the matting
on the floor with the legs of his chair.

" What do you mean ? ”

" Sire,” replied Olivier le Daim, with the malicious look
of a man who rejoices to strike a severe blow, " this ris-
ing of the people is not directed against the bailiff of
the Palace.”

"And against whom, then?”

"Against you, Sira”,

The old king rose to liis feet as erect as a young roan.

WHERE LOUIS XL SAYS HIS PRAYERS.

345

^‘Explaiii yourself, Olivier! And look to your head,
my friend ; for I swear by the cross of Saiiit-L6, that if
you lie to us at this hour, the same sword which cut
off the head of my lord Luxembourg is not too dull to
chop off yours 1 ’’

The oath was a tremendous one ; Louis XI. had never
but twice in his life sworn by the cross of Saint-Lo.

Olivier opened his lips to answer.

“ Sire — ”:

On your knees ! ” fiercely interrupted the king. '' Tris-
tan, watch this man ! ”

Olivier knelt, and said coldly, —

‘‘ Sire, a witch was condemned to death by your parlia-
mentary court. She took refuge in Notre-l)ame. The
people desire to take her thence by force. The provost
and the captain of the watch, who have just come from
the scene of the insurrection, are here to give me the
lie if I speak not truly. The people are besieging
Notre-Daine”

Indeed ! ” said the king in a low voice, pale and
trembling with rage. '' N'otre-Dame 1 So they lay siege
to iny good mistress, Our Lady, in her own cathedral!
Kise, Olivier; you are right. I give you Simon Eadiifs
office. You are right ; it is I whom they attack. The
witcli is in the safe-keeping of the church ; the church
is ill my safe-keeping; and I was foolish enough to
believe that they were assaulting the bailiff. It is

Tlien, made young by fury, he began to pace the floor
witii hasty strides. He laughed no longer ; he was terri-

346

NOTRE-DAME.

ble to behold ; he came and went ; the fox was turned to
a hyena. He seemed to have lost all power of speech ;
his lips moved, and his fleshless hands were clenched.
All at once he raised his head, his hollow eye seemed
fllled with light, and his voice flashed forth like a
clarion : —

Do your work well, Tristan 1 Do your work well
with these scoundrels 1 Go, Tristan my friend ; kill !
kill!’’

This outburst over, he sat down again, and said with
cold and concentrated wrath, —

''Here, Tristan! There are with us in this Bastille
Viscount de Gifs fifty lances, making three hundred
horse : take them. There is also M; de Ch^teaupers’
company of archers of our ordnance : take them. You
are provost-marshal ; you have your own men : take them.
At the Hdtel Saint-Pol you will find forty archers of
the Dauphin’s new guard : take them. And with all these
soldiers you will hasten to Notre-Dame. Ah, you com-
moners of Paris, so you would attack the Grown of
France, the sanctity of Hotre-Dame, and the peace of this
republic ! Exterminate them, Tristan ! exterminate them !
and let not one escape but for Montfaucon.”

Tristan bowed. "It is well, Sire.”

After a pause he added, " And what shall I do with
the witch

This question gave the king food for thought.

" Ah,” said he, " the witch 1 D’Estouteville, what was
the people’s pleasure in regard to her?”

" Sire,” replied the provost of Paris, " I fancy that as

347

■ WHERE LOUIS XI. SAYS . HIS PRAYEES.

the people desire to wrest her from her shelter in Notre-
Dame, it is her lack of punishment that ofiends them,
and they propose to hang her.”

The king seemed to muse deeply ; then, addressing
Tristan rHermite: "‘Very well, good gossip; extermi-
nate the people, and hang the witch I ”

“ That 's it,” whispered Eym to Coppenole, punish the
people for their purpose, and then fulfil that purpose.”

“It is well, Sire,” answered Tristan. “If the witch be
still in Notre-Dame, shall we disregard the sanctuary, and
take her thence ?”

“BytheEood! Sanctuary!” said the king, scratching
his ear. “And yet this woman must be hanged.”

Here, as if struck by a sudden thought, he fell upon
his knees before his chair, doffed his hat, put it on the
seat, and gazing devoutly at one of the leaden images
with which it was loaded, he exclaimed, with clasped
hands : “ Oh, Our Lady of Paris, my gracious patroness,
pardon me ! I will only do it this once. This criminal
must be punished. I assure you, Holy Virgin, my good
mistress, that she is a witch, and unworthy of your
generous protection. You know, inadame, that many very
pious princes have infringed upon the privileges of the
Cliurch for the glory of God and the needs of the State.
Saint Hugh, Bishop of England, allowed King Edward to
capture a magician in his church. Saint Louis of France,
my master, for the same purpose violated the church of
St. Paul; and Alphonso, son of the King of Jerusalem,
the Church of the Holy Sepulchre itself. Forgive me
this once, Our Lady of Paris! I will never do so again,

348

notee-dame.

He made tbe si
and said to Tristai
'' Make haste, fri

WHERE LOUIS XL SAYS HIS PRAYERS.

349

the alarm ! Quell the raob ! Hang the witcli ! That
is all. And I exj^ect you to pay the costs of haiigiiig.
You will render me an account thereof. Come, Olivier,
I shall not go to bed to-night; shave me.”

. Tristan V Hermite bowed, and left the room. Then the
king dismissed Eym and Coppenole with a gesture, and
the words, —

God keep you, my good Flemish friends. Gi-o, take a
little rest; the night is passing, and we are nearer morn
than evening.”

Both retired, and on reaching their apartments under
the escort of the captain of the Bastille, Coppenole said to
Guillaume Eym, —

'' Ahem ! I have had enough of this coughing king.
I have seen Charles of Burgundy drunk, and he was not
so bad as Louis XL sick.”

''Master Jacques,” replied Eym, "ft is because the wine
of kings is less cruel than their diet-drink.”

-;WS

THE CHIVE IN THE CLY.

O F leaving the Bastille, Gringoire ran down the Hue
Saint- Antoine with the speed of a runaway horse.
On reaching the Porte Baudoyer, he walked straight up
to the stone cross in the middle of the square, as if
he had been able to distinguish in the darkness the
figure of a man in a black dress and cowl, who sat upon
the steps of the cross. ,

351

^‘THE CHIVE IN THE CLY?^

“Is it you, master ?” said Gringoire.

The black figure rose.

“ ’Sdeath ! You make my blood boil, Gringoire. The
man on the tower of Saint-Gervais has just cried half-
past one.”

“Oh” rejoined Gringoire, “it is not my fault, but
that of the watch and the king. I have had a narrow
escape. I always just miss being hanged ; it is my
fate.”

“ You just miss everything,” said the other ; “ but
make haste. Have you the password ? ”

“Only fancy, master, that I have seen the king. I
have just left him. He wears fustian breeches. It was
quite an adventure”

“Oh, you spinner of words 1 What do I care for
your adventure? Have you the watchword of the
Vagrants ? ”

“I have; never fear. It is ' the Chive in the
Cly/”

“Good! Otherwise could not make our way to
the cliurch. The Vagrants block the streets. Luckily,
it appears that they met with considerable resistance.
We may yet be there in time.”

“ Yes, master ; but how are we to get into Notre-Darne ? ”

“I liave the key to the towers.”

“And how shall we get out?”

“There is a small door, behind the cloisters, which
opens upon the Terrain^ and thence to the water.
I have the key, and I moored a boat there this

CHATEAUPERS TO THE RESCUE,

T he reader may perhaps recall the critical situation
in which we left Quasimodo. The brave deaf man,
assailed on every hand, had lost, if not all courage, at
least all hope of saving, not himself (lie did not think of
himself), but the gypsy. He ran frantically up and down
the gallery. Notre-Dame was about to be captured by
tlie Vagrants. Suddenly, the gallop of horses filled the
neighboring streets, and with a long train of torches and
a broad column of horsemen riding at full speed with
lances lowered, the furious sound burst into the square
like a whirlwind : —

“.France! France! Hew down the clodpoles 1 Cha-
teaupcrs to the rescue 1 Provosty ! , provosty ,!

354

NOTEE-DAME.

The terrified Vagrants wheeled about.

Quasimodo, who heard nothing, saw the naked swords,
the torches, the pike-heads, the horsemen, at whose head
he recognized Captain Phoebus. He saw the confusion
of the Vagrants, — the alarm of some, the^ consterna-
tion of the stoutest-hearted, — and he derived so much
strength from this unexpected succor, that he hurled from
the church the foremost assailants, who were already
bestriding the gallery rails.

The king’s troops had actually arrived.

The Vagrants fought bravely ; they defended them-
selves desperately. Taken in Hank from the Eue Saiiit-
Pierre-aux-Boeufs, and in the rear from the Paie du Parvis,
driven close against ifotre-Dame, which they were still
assailing, and which Quasimodo was defending, at once
besiegers and besieged, tfiey were in the singular situa-
tion in which Count Henri d’Harcourt afterwards found
himself at the famous siege of Turin, in 1640, — between
Prince Thomas of Savoy, whom he was besieging, and the
Marquis de Leganez, who was blockading him. Tauri-
mom ohscssor icUm et obscssus,^* as liis epitaph says.

The conflict was frightful. As Pfere Mathieii puts
it, wolfs flesh needs dog’s teeth.” The king’s cavaliers,
among whom Phoebus de Ghateaupers comported himself
most valiantly, gave no quarter, and the edge of tlie
sword slew those who escaped the thrust of the lance.
The Vagrants, ill-armed, foamed and hit. Men, women,
and children flung themselves upon the cruppers and
breast-pieces of the horses, and clung to them like cats
witli tooth and nail. Others Minded tlie archers by

' CHATEATOEBS- TO ' THE l^ESGUE. ' "'355 ,

blows of their torches ; others again struck iron hooks
into the riders’ necks and pulled them downy cutting
into pieces those who fell.

One man had a large shining scythe, with which he
mowed the legs of the horses. It was a frightful sight.
He sang a nasal song, and swept his scythe cease-
lessly to and fro. At every stroke he cut a broad swath
of dismembered limbs. He advanced thus into the thick-
est of the cavalry, with the calm deliberation, swaying
of the head, and regular breathing of a mower cutting
down a field of grain. This was Clopin Trouillefou. A
shot from an arquebus at last laid him low.

Meantime, windows were again opened. The neigh-
bors, hearing the battle-shouts of the king’s men, joined
in the skirmish, and from every story bullets rained
upon the Vagrants. The square was hi led with thick
smoke, which the flash of musketry streaked with fire.
The front of Hotre-Dame was vaguely visible through it,
and the decrepit hospital the HOteLDieu, with a few
wan patients looking down from the top of its roof
dotted with dormer-windows.

At last the Vagrants yielded. Exhaustion, lack of
proper arms, the terror caused by the surprise, the mus-
ketry from the windows, the brave onslaught of the king’s
men, all combined to crush them. They broke through the
enemy’s ranks, and fled in every direction, leaving the
square heaped with corpses.

When Quasimodo, who had not stopped fighting for a
single instant, saw this rout, he fell upon his knees and
raised his hands to heaven; then, mad with joy, he ran,

356

NOTRE-DAME.

he climbed with the swift motion of a bird to tliat little
cell, all access to which he had so intrepidly defended.
He had but one thought now : that was, to kneel before
her whom he had saved for the second time.

When he entered the cell he found it empty.

BOOK ELEVENTH

I.

THE LITTLE SHOE.

"I ^THEN the Vagrants attacked tlie church, Esmeralda
^ ^ was asleep.

Soon the ever-increasing noise about the building, and
the anxious bleating of her goat, which waked before she
did, roused her from her slumbers. She sat up, listened,

358

NOTRE-DAME.

looked about ; then, alarmed by the light and commotion,
hurried from her cell to see what it all meant. The as-
pect of the square, the vision which she beheld, the dis-
order and confusion of this night attack, the hideous
rabble bounding hither and thither like an army of frogs
half seen in the darkness, the croaking of the hoarse mob,
the few" red torches moving and dancing in the darkness
like will-o'-the-wisps sporting on the misty surface of a
marsh, — the wdiole scene produced upon her the effect of
a weird battle "waged by the phantoms of tlie Witches’ Sab-
bath and the stone monsters of the cimrch. Imbued from
infancy wdth the superstitious notions of tiie gypsy tribe,
her first thought was that she had surprised the strange
beings of the night in their sorceries. Thus she ran back
to her cell in affright to hide her head, and implore her
pillow to send her some less horrid nightmare.

Eittle by little, however, the first fumes of fear vanished ;
from the ever-increasing tumult, and from various other
tokens of reality, she felt that she was beset, not by spec-
tres, blit by human beings. Then her terror, without being
augmented, changed its nature. She reflected upon the
possibility of a popular revolt to tear her from her refuge.
The idea of again losing life, hope, and Phoebus, whom
she still hoped to win in the future, her own absolute
defencelessness, all flight cut off, no help at liand, her for-
lorn condition, her isolation, — these thoughts and count-
less others overwhelmed her. She fell upon her knees,
her face buried in the bed-clothes, her hands clasped
above her head, full of agony and apprehension, and,
pagan, and idolater though she was, she began wdth

THE LITTLE SHOE.

.359

sobs to entreat mercy of the good Christian God, and to
pray to her hostess, Our Lady. For, believe in nothing
though one may, there are moments in life when one
belongs to the creed of whatever church is nearest.

She lay thus prostrate for a very long time, trembling,
indeed, far more than she prayed, chilled by the ever-
advancing breath of that frantic mob, wholly ignorant of
the meaning of their unbridled rage, knowing not what
was on foot, what was being done, what object that throng
had in view, but foreseeing some terrible issue.

In the midst of lier anguish she heard steps close at
hand. She turned. Two men, one of whom carried a
lantern, entered her cell. She uttered a faint .shriek
Fear nothing,” said a voice which was not unknown
to her ; it is I.”

Who are you ? ” she asked.

'' Pierre Gringoire.”

That name calmed her fears. She raised her eyes, and
saw that it was indeed the poet; but beside him stood
a black figure veiled from head to foot, wdiich silenced
her.

'' Ah ! ” replied thingoire in reproachful tones, “ Djali
knew me before you did!”

Tlie little goat, in fact, did not wait for Gringoire to
pronounce his name. He had no sooner entered, than she
rubbed herself fondly against his knees, covering the poet
with caresses and white hairs, — for she was shedding her
coat. Gringoire returned her caresses.

^“■'Who is that with you?” said the gypsy in a low

360

NOTRE-DAME.

'' Nevei' fear/’ replied Gringoire ; it ’s a friend of
mine.”

Then the philosopher, placing his lantern on the
ground, crouched upon the flagstones, and enthusiasti-
cally exclaimed, as, he clasped Djali in his arms, —

''Oh, ’tis a pretty creature, doubtless more remark-
able for her neatness than her size, but ingenious, subtle,
and learned as any grammarian of them all ! Come, my
Djali, let us see if you have forgotten any of your cun-
ning tricks! Show us how Master Jacques Charmolue
does — ”

The man in black would not let him finish. He
stepped up to him and gave him a rude shove on the
shoulder. Gringoire rose.

" True,” said he ; " I forgot that we are in haste. Still,
that’s no reason, master mine, for handling people so
roughly. My dear child, your life is in danger, and
Djali’s too. They want to hang you again. We are your
friends, and are come hither to save you. Follow us.”

" Is it true ? ” cried she, distractedly.

" Yes, quite true. Come quickly 1 ”

" I will,” she stammered. " But why does n’t your
friend speak?”

"Ah!” said Gringoire, "that’s because his father and
mother were queer people, and brought him up to be
silent.”

She was forced to rest content with this explanation.
Gringoire took her by the hand ; his companion picked up
the lantern and went on before. The girl was dizzy with
dread. She let them lead her away. The goat followed

THE LITTLE SHOE.

3G1

tJiejii with leaps of delight, so rejoiced to seo Gringoire
once more, that she made him stumble every moment by
thrusting her horns between his legs.

Such is life,” said the philosopher at each escape
from falling; "'it is often our best friends who cause our
downfall 1”

They rapidly descended the tower stairs, traversed the
church, full of solitude and gloom, but echoing with the
din without in frightful contrast to the peace within^ and
came into the cloister courtyard by the Porte- Eouge.
The cloister was deserted; the canons had fled to the
bishop's palace to pray together; the court was empty,
save for a few timid lackeys hiding in dark corners. They
made their way towards the door which led from this
courtyard to the Terrain. The man in black opened it
with a key which he had about him. Our readers know
that the Terrain was a strip of ground enclosed with walls
on the City side, and belonging to the Chapter of Wotre-
Dame, which formed the extreme eastern end of the island
in the rear of the church. They found this enclosure quite
forsaken. Here there was already less noise in the air.
The sound of the Vagrants' assault reached them more
faintly, less harshly. The fresh wind wdiich followed the
course of the stream stirred with a perceptible rustle the
leaves of the one tree planted at the tip of the Terrain.
However, they were still very close to the danger. The
nearest buildings were the Episcopal palace and the
church. There was plainly great commotion within the
palace. The gloomy mass was, furrowed with lights, which
flew from one window to atiothex^ as when you burn

362

NOTEE-DAME.

paper a dark structure of ashes, remains, upon which
bright sparks trace countless grotesque figures. Beside it
the huge towers of ISTotre-Dame, thus viewed from the rear
with the long nave upon which they are built, outlined in
black against the vast red light which filled the square,
looked like two monstrous andirons for a fire of the
Cyclops.

In all directions, so much of Paris as could be seen
shimmered in blended light and shade. Eembraudt has
just such backgrounds in some of his pictures.

The man with the lantern walked straight to the end of
the Terrain. There, on the very edge of the water, were
the worm-eaten remains of a picket fence with laths nailed
across, to which a few withered branches of a low vine
clung like the fingers of an open hand. Behind, in the
shadow of this trellis, a small boat was hidden. The man
signed to Gringoire and his companion to enter it. The
goat followed them. The man stepped in last; then he
cut the hawser, shoved off from shore with a long boat-
hook, and seizing a pair of oars, seated himself in the bow,
rowing with all his strength towards the middle of the
stream. The Seine runs very swiftly at this point, and he
had some difficulty in clearing the end of the island.

Gringoire's first care, on entering the boat, \vas to take
the goat upon his knees. He sat down in the stern ; and
the young girl, whom the stranger inspired witli indescriba-
ble fears, took her place close beside the poet.

When our philosopher felt the boat moving, he clapped
his hands, and kissed Djali between her horns.

'' Oh,'' said he, "'here we are all four saved ! ''

THE LITTLE SHOE,

He added; with the look of a deep thiiikei*; One is
sometimes indebted to fortune, sometimes to ciumiiig, for
the happy issue of a great undertaking/’

Tlie boat proceeded slovvdy towards the right bank.
The young girl watched the stranger with secret dread.
He had carefully covered the light of his dark-lantern, and
was but dimly visible, in the gloom, like a ghost in the
bow^ of the boat. His cowl, still drawn down, formed a
sort of mask over his face ; and every time that he opened
his arms, wdth their wide hanging black sleeves, in rowing,
they looked like the broad wings of a bat. Moreover, he
had not yet breathed a word. The only sound in the boat
was that of the oars, mingled with the ripple of the water
against the side of the boat.

«By my soul I” suddenly exclaimed Gringoire, ''we are
as gay and lively as so many owls I We ’re as silent as
Pythagoreans or fishes ! By the Eood ! my friends, I wish
one of you would speak to me. The human voice is
music to the human ear. I am not the author of that re-
mark, but Didymus of Alexandria is, and famous words
they are. Gertes, Didymus of Alexandria is no mean
pliilosopher. One wmrd, my pretty child, — say one word
to me, T implore. By the way, you used to make a queer,
funny little face ; do you still make it ? Do you know,
my darling, that Parliament holds jurisdiction over all
sanctuaries, and that you ran great risks in your cell in
IsTotre-Dame ? Alas I the little bird trochylus builds its
nest in tbe jaws of the cmcodile. Master, there ’s the
moon peeping out again. How’' I hope they won’t see us I
We are doing a laudable deed - in saving the damsel, and

>* ' .

fcjferf ’id

yet we sliould
caught. Alas
I am condem;

vve were

THE LITTLE SHOE.

365

rewarded. Some admire Cmsar and blame Catiline.
Is n’t that so, master mine ? What do you say to . that
philosophy ? For my part, I possess the philosophy of in-
stinct, of nature (itt apes gcomctriam). — What ! nobody an-
swers me ! What disagreeable tempers yon both have ! I
must needs talk to myself. That ’s what we call in tragedy
a monologue. By the Kood ! — I must tell you that 1 ’ve
just seen king Louis XI., and that I caught that oath from
him, — by the Eood, then, they’re still keeping up a
fine howling in the City ! He ’s a wicked old villain of a
king. Pie ’s all muffled up in furs. He still owes me tlie
money for my epithalamium, and he came precious near
hanging me to-night, which would have bothered me
mightily. He is very stingy to men of merit. He really
ought to read the four books by Salvien of Cologne,
'Adversus avaritiani! In good sooth, he is a very narrow-
minded king in liis dealings with men of letters, and one
who commits most barbarous cruelties. He’s a sponge
to soak up money squeezed from the people. His eco-
nomy is like the spleen, which gro'ws fat upon the lean-
ness of all tlic other members. Thus, complaints of
the hardness of the times become murmurs against the
sovereign. Under the reign of this mild and pious lord,
the gallows crack with their weight of victims, the
headsman’s blocks grow rotten with blood, the prisons
are filled to bursting. This king takes in money with
one hand and hangs men with the other. He is
pander to iny lady Taxes and my lord Gibbet. The
great are vStripped of their dignities, and the small are
ceaselessly loaded witli new burdens. ’Tis an extrava-

366

NOTBE-BAME.

gant prince. I do not love this monarch. And how
say you, my master?’'

The man in black sufiered the babbling poet to prate his
fill. He continued to struggle against the strong and
angry current which divides the prow of the City from the
stern of the lie Notre-Dame, which we now know as the
lie Saint“Louis.

“By the way, master,” suddenly observed Gringoire,
“just as we made our way into the square through the
angry Vagabonds, did your reverence note that poor little-
devil wliose brains your deaf friend was about dashing out
against the railing of the gallery of kings ? I am near-
sigiited, and did not recognize him. Do you know who it
could be ? ”

The stranger made no answer; but he ceased rowing;
his arms fell powerless ; his head drooped upon his breast,
and Esmeralda heard him heave a convulsive sigh. She
also shuddered. She had heard similar sighs before.

The boat, left to itself, drifted with the current for some
moments. But finally the man in black drew himself up,
again seized the oars, and began again to pull against the
stream. He rounded the end of the lie Notre-Dame,
and bent his course toward the landing-place of the
Hay-rnarket.

“ Ah 1 ” said Gringoire, “ there 's the Barbeau house.
There, master, look : that collection of black roofs which
form such strange angles ; there, beneath tliat mass of low,
stringy, streaked, and dirty clouds, where the moon looks
like the yolk of a broken , egg. 'Tis a handsome house.
It contains a chapel capped by a tiny dome full of daintily-

THE LITTLE SHOE.

367

wrought decorations. Above it you may see the bell-
tower with its delicate tracery. There is also a pleasant
garden, consisting of a fish-pond, an aviary, an echo, a
mall, a labyrinth, a house for wild beasts, and a quantity
of shady alleys most agreeable to Venus. There is also
a rascally tree, which goes by the name of tlie Lovers'
Eetreat, because it once hid the meetings of a famous
French princess and a gallant and witty constable of
France. Alas! we poor philosophers are to a constable
what a bed of cabbages and radishes is to the gardens of
the Louvre. What does it matter, after all ? Human life,
for the great as well as for us, is made up of mingled good
and ill. Grief goes ever hand in hand with gladness, as
the spondee with the dactyl. Master, I must tell you
the story of this Barbeau house. It ends in tragic fash-
ion. It was in 1319, during the reign of Philip V., the
longest of all the French kings. The moral of the story
is, that the temptations of the flesh are hurtful and per-
nicious. Do not look too often at your neighbor's wife,
much as your senses may be tickled by her beauty.
Fornication is a very libertine thought. Adultery is
curiosity about another’s pleasure. Hollo! The noise
seems to be growing louder over yonder!"

The din around Hotre-Dame was indeed increasing
rapidly. They paused and listened. They distinctly
heard shouts of victory. All at once a hundred torches,
which lit up the glittering helmets of men-at-arms, ap-
peared upon all parts of the church, — upon the towers,
galleries, and flying buttresses. These torches seemed
searching for some one or something; and soon distant

368

NOTRE-DAME.

cries of, “ The gypsy 1 The witch ! Deatli to the gypsy ! ”
fell plainly on the ears of the fugitives.

The wretched girl hid her face in her hands, and the
unknown boatman began to row frantically for tlie shore.
Meantime our philosopher reflected. He hugged the goat
in his arms, and edged very gently away from the gypsy,
who nestled closer and closer to him, as her only remaining
protector.

Gringoire was certainly cruelly perplexed. He con-
sidered that the goat too, '' according to the existing law/’
would be hanged if she rvere recaptured, which would be
a great pity, — poor Djali ! that it was quite too much of
a good thing to have two condemned prisoners clinging
to him at once; and, finally, that his companion asked
nothing better than to take sole charge of the girl. A
violent conflict went on within him, in which, like Jupiter
in the Iliad, he alternately weighed the merits of the
gypsy and the goat; and he gazed first at the one, then at
the other, with tearful eyes, muttering, After all, I can-
not save you both I ”

A shock warned them that the boat had readied shore.
The ominous uproar still pervaded the City. The stranger
rose, approached the gypsy, and tried to take her by the
arm to help her to land. She repulsed liim, and clung to
Gringoire’s sleeve, while he, in his turn, absorbed in the
goat, almost. pushed her' from him. Then she sprang from
the boat unaided. She was so distressed that she knew
not what she was doing, or where she was going. Slie
stood thus stupefied an instant, watching the water as it
glided by. When she had somewhat recovered Imr senses,

THE LITTLE SHOE.

369

she was alone upon the wharf with the stranger. It seems
that Gringoire had taken advantage of the moment of their
landing, and stolen away with the goat into the throng of
houses in the Eue Grenier-sur-rEau.

Tlie poor gypsy sluiddered when she found herself alone
with this man. She tried to speak, to cry out, to call
Gringoire ; her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and
110 sound issued from her lips. 2III at once she felt tlie
hand of the unknown upon lier arm. It was a cold,
strong hand. Her teeth cliattered ; she turned paler than
the moonbeams wliich illumined her luce. The man said
not a .word. He strode rapidly towards the Gr^ve, holding
her firmly by the hand. At that moment she vaguely felt
that fate is an irresistible ])ower. She had lost all control
of her limbs ; she suffered him to drag her along, running
while he walked. The cpiay at this point rises abruptly
from the river, but it seemed to her as if she were going
down hill.

She looked in every direction. Hot a single passer.
The cpiay was absolutely deserted. She heard no sound,
she perceived no stir save in the tumultuous and blazing
City, from which she was separated only by an arm of the
Seine, and whence her name came to her joined with
tlireats of death. The rest of Paris lay spread around tier
in great masses of shadow.

Meantime, tlie stranger drew her on in the same silence
and with the same speed. She recognized none of the
places through which she paSvSed. As she went by a
lighted window she made an effort, suddenly resisted
him, and cried, “Help!’'

370

NOTBE-DAME.

The owner of the house opened the window, appeared
in his shirt, with liis lamp, looked out upon the quay with
a drowsy face, pronounced a few words which she did not
catch, and closed his shutter. Thus her last glimmer of
hope faded.

The man in black did not utter a syllable ; he held her
fast, and began to increase his speed. She resisted no
longer, but followed him helplessly.

From time to time she mustered a little strength, and
said ill a voice broken by the unevenness of the pavement
and the breathless haste with which she was borne along :

Who are you ? Who, are you V He made no reply.

In this way they proceeded along the edge of the quay
to an open square of considerable size. The moon shone
faintly. They were in the Greve. In the middle stood a
sort of black cross : it was the gallows. She recognized
all this, and knew where she was. ■

The man stopped, turned to her, and lifted his cowl.

Oh 1 '' stammered she, frozen with fear ; “ I was sure
that it must be he.”

It was the priest. He looked like the ghost of himself.
This was due to the moonlight. It seems as if by that
light one could see only the spectres of things.

“Listen]” said he; and she trembled at the sound of
that fatal voice which she had not heard for so loim a

■ ' ■ '' ■; O':.;".',"

time. He ^\^ent on, with the short, quick gasps whicli
betray deep mental emotion ; “Listen 1 We have reached
our goal. I must speak with you. This is the Grove.
This is a decisive point in pur lives. Fate has delivered
us over to each other.. Your life is in my hands ; my soul

THE LITTLE SHOE.

371

rests in yonrs. Beyond this place and this night all is
dark. Hear me, then. I am going to tell you — But first,
speak not to me of your Phoebus.” (As he said this lie
came and went, like a man wdio cannot remain quietly in.
one place, dragging her after him.) '^Speak not of Mm.
If you but mention his name, I know not what I shall do,
but it will be something terrible.”

This said, like a body which has found its centre of
gravity, he again stood still, but liis words revealed no
less emotion. His voice grew lower and lower.

''Do not turn away your head. Listen to me. It is a
serious business. In the first place, I w-ill tell you what
has happened. It is no laughing matter, I assure you.
What was I saying? Eemind me! Ah! There is an
order from Parliament which returns you to the scaffold.
I have rescued you from the hangman’s hands; but even
now they are in pursuit of you. See I ”

He stretched liis arm toward the City. The search did
indeed, seem to be continued. The noise drew nearer;
the tower of the lieutenant’s house, directly facing the
Grove, was full of light and hustle, and soldiers were seen
running along the opposite quay with torches, shouting:
'' The gypsy 1 Where is the gypsy ? Death I Death I ”
You see that they are in pursuit of you, and that I do
not lie. I love you. Do not open your Iq^s ; rather, do
not speak to me, if it be to tell me that you hate me. I am
resolved never again to hear that. I have saved you. —
Let me finish first. — I can save you wholly. Everything
is ready. It is for you to ohoose* I can do as you would
have me.”

KOTRE-DAME.

372

He interrupted himself excitedly : No, that is not
“what I meant to say.’'

Then, running, and making her run after him, — for he
did not loose his hold, — he went straight to the gibbet,
and pointed to it.

''Choose between us,” said he, coldly.

She tore lierself from his grasp, and fell at the foot of
the gibbet, throwing her arms about that dismal support;
then she half turned her lovely head, and looked at the
priest over her shoulder. She seemed a Holy Virgin at
the foot of the cross. The priest remained motionless, his
huger still raised to the gallows, his gesture unchanged as
if he were a statue.

At last the gypsy said, —

" It is less horrible to me than you are.”

Then he let his arm drop slowly, and gazed at the pave-
ment in deep dejection.

" If these stones could speak,” he murmured, " yes, they
would say, ' There is a very miserable man.’ ”

He went on. The girl, kneeling before tlie gibbet, and
veiled by her long hair, let him speak without interrup-
tion. He had now assumed a gentle, plaintive tone, in
painful contrast with the proud severity of liis features.

" I love you. Oh, it is indeed true 1 Is there tlien no
visible spark of that fire which burns my soul? Alas!
girl, night and day; yes, night and day, — does this deserve
no pity ? It is a love which consumes me niglit and day,

I tell you; it is torture, Oh,, my suffering is too great
to be endured, my poor child I It is a thing worthy of
compassion, T assure you. You see that 1 speak gently

THE LITTLE SHOE.

I would fain have you cease to feel .such horror
After all, if a man love a woman, it is liot his

NOTBE-DAME.

374

fault ! Oil, my God ! Whafc ! will you never forgive me ?
Will you always bate me ? Is this the end ? It is this
that makes me wicked, I tell you, and horrible in my own
sight ! You do not even look at me ! You are thinking
of other things, perhaps, while I stand and talk to you,
and both of us are trembling on the verge of -eternity ! But
do not talk to me of your soldier 1 What ! I might throw
myself at your knees ; what ! I might kiss, not your feet,
for that you would not suffer, but the ground beneatii
your feet ; what 1 I might sob like a child ; I might tear
from my bosom, not words, but my heart and my very
life, to show you bow I love you ; all would be in vain, —
all! And yet your soul is full of gentleness and ten-
derness ; you are radiant with the most beauteous mild-
ness ; you are all sweetness, goodness, mercy, and cbarm.
Alas ! you are unkind to me alone ! Oh, what a freak of
fate!^^

He buried bis face in his bands. The young girl heard
his sobs. It was the first time that she had seen him
weep. Standing thus, shaken by sobs, he ajypeared more
miserable and more suppliant than had he been on his
knees. He wept thus for some time.

" Ah, well ! ” he added, his first tears over, '' I can find
no words to express my feelings ; and yet I pondered well
what I should say to you. How, I tremlfie and shuckhu;;

I give way at the decisive moziieiit; I feel that some *
superior power surrounds us, and I stammer. Oh, I shall
fall to the ground if you do not take pity upon me, upon
yourself! Do not condemn iis both! If you knew liow
much I love you; what, a hbart inine is! Oh, what an

375

THE LITTLE SHOE.

abandonment of all virtue ! wliat a desperate desertion of
myself! A scholar, I scoff at science; a gentleman, I
disgrace my name ; a priest, I make rny missal a pil-
low of foul desires, grossly insult my God! All this for
your sake, enchantress ! to be worthy of your hell I And
you reject the damned soul ! Oh, let me tell you all!
more still, something yet more horrible, oh, far more
horrible — ”

As he pronounced these last words, his look became
quite wild. He was silent an instant, then resumed as if
talking to himself, and in a firm voice, —

'' Cain, what hast thou done with thy brother ? ”

There was another pause, and he added, —

'' What have I done with him, Lord ? I took him in
my arms, I hrouglit him up, I fed him, I loved him, I
idolized him, and I killed him ! Yes, Lord, for they have
just now dashed his head, before my very eyes, against
the stones of your temple, and it was because of me, be-
cause of tliis woman, because of her—’’

His eye was haggard. His voice died away ; he still
repeated mechanically, over and over, at considerable in-
tervals, like a l.)ell prolonging its last vibration, Because
of Tier ; because of lier — ”

Here his tongue ceased to articulate any distinct sound,
although Ins lips still moved. All at once he gave way,
and sank in a heap, lying motionless upon the ground, his
head upon his knees.

A slight movement made by the girl to pull her foot
from under him revived him. He slowly drew his hand
over his hollow cheeks, and looked in amazement at his

376

NOTBE-DAME.

fingers, which were wet. What ! he muttered, have 1
wept V ■ ■

And turning (quickly to the gypsy with indescribable
anguish : —

“ Alas ! and you could coldly see me weep I Child,
do you know that those tears are burning lava? Is it
then really true, — in the man we hate, nothing moves
us ? You would see me die, and still laugh ! One word, —
only one word of pardon ! Do not tell me that you love
me, only tell me timt you will try ; that shall suflice, and
I will save you. If not, — oh, time passes. I conjure you !
by all tliat you liold sacred, do not wait until I am once
more turned to stone, like that gibbet which also claims
you ! Think, that I hold the destinies of both in my
hand ; that I am mad, — it is terrible 1 — that I may let ail
fall ; and that beneath us yawns a bottomless pit, wretched
girl, wherein my fall shall follow yours through all eter-
nity ! One word of kindness, — but a single word I ’’

She opened her mouth to answer him. He threw him-
self upon his knees before her, to receive with adoration
the words, perhaps relenting, which were about to fall from
her lips. She said to him, “ You are an assassin ! ’’

The priest caught her fiercely in his arms, and began
to laugh an abominable laugh.

“ Well, yes, an assassin ! ” said he ; and you shall be
mine. You will not have me for your slave, you shall
have me for your master. You shall be iniue ! You
shall be mine ! I have a den whither I will drag you.
You must follow me, you must needs follow me, or I will
give you up to, justice! You must die, my beHuty, or

THE LITTLE SHOE. 377

be mine, — be the pliest^s, the apostate’s, the assassin’s !
and that this night; do you hear me ? Coin e 1 rejoice ;
come, Idss me, foolish girl! The tomb, or my bed T’
Hismyes flashed with rage and desire. His impure lips
reddened the neck of the young girl. She struggled in
his arms. He covered her with frantic kisses.

'‘Do not bite me, inonster!” she shrieked. “Oh, the
liateful, poisonous monk! Let me go! 1 will tear out
your vile gray hair, and throw it by liandfuls in your
face 1 ”

He flushed, then paled, then released her, and looked
at her gloomily. She thought herself victorious, and
went on : —

“I tell you that I belong to my Plnebus, .that his
PlicBbus I love, that Phoebus alone is handsome 1 You,
priest, are old! you are ugly ! Begone!”

He uttered a violent cry, like the wretch to whom a
red-liot iron is applied. Then, die!” he said, gnash-
ing his teeth. She saw his frightful look, and strove to
fly. He overtook her, shook her, threw her down, and
walked rapidly toward the corner of the Tour-Eoland,
dragging her after him over the pavement by her fair
hands.

Eeaching it, he turned to her: —

“For the last time, will you be mine?’'

She answered emphatically, —

“Ho!”

Then lie called in a loud voice, — ^

“(ludiilo! Gudule! here is the gypsy girl! Avenge
yourself I”

MB'

NOTKE-DAME.

The young girl felt herself suddenly seized by the elbow.
She looked. A fleshless arm was thrust from a loophole
in the wall, and held her with an iron grip.

^‘'Hold her fast!” said the priest; ‘'it’s the runaway
gypsy. Do not let her go. I will fetch the officers.
You shall see her hanged.”

A guttural laugh from the other side of the wall re-
plied to these bloody words: “Ha! ha! ha!” The
gypsy saw the priest depart in the direction of the Pont
ATotre-Dame. The tramp of horses was heard coming
from that quarter.

The girl recognized the spiteful recluse. Panting with
terror, she tried to release herself. She writhed, she
twisted herself in agony and despair; but the woman
held her with unnatural strength. The thin bony Angers
which bruised her flesh fastened about lier arm like a
vise. That hand seemed riveted to her wrist. It was
stronger tlian any chain, stronger than any pillory or
iron ring ; it was a pair of intelligent and living pincers
issuing fj'om a wall.

Exhausted, she sank back, and the fear of deatli took
possession of her. She thought of the beauty of life, of
youth, of the sight of the sky, of the various aspects
of Nature, of the love of Phoebus, of all that was be-
hind her and of all that was rapidly coming upon lier,
of the priest who would denoiiocc her, of tlie hangman
who would soon arrive, of the gallows wliigh was al-
ready there.^ Then terror rose to the very roots oi‘ her
hair, and she heard the melancholy laugh of tlie recluse,
as she whispered in her ear, —

TRE LITTLE SHOE.

379

“Ha! lia! ha! You shall be hanged!”

She turned, alniost fainting, to the window, and saw
tiie savage face of the nun through the bars.

“ What have I done to you ? ” she asked feebly.

The recluse made no answer; she began to mumble
in angry, mocking sing-song, Gypsy girl ! gypsy girl !
gypsy girl ! ”

The luckless Esmeralda veiled her face with her hair,
seeing that it was no human being witli whom she had
to deal.

All at once the recluse exclaimed, as if the gypsy's
question had taken all ftiis time to penetrate lier troubled
brain : —

What have you done to me, do you say ? Ah \
What have you done to me, indeed, you gypsy ! Well,
listen, and I will tell you. I had a child, even 1 1 Do
you hear? I had a child, — a child, I say! A pretty
little girl! My Agnbs,” she repeated, lier wits wander-
ing for a moment, and kissing something in the gloom.
“ Well, are you listening, gypsy ? Tiiey stole my child ;
they took ray child from me; they ate my child! That
is what you have done to me.”

The young girl answered, as innocently as the lamb
in the fable, —

Alas ! I probal)ly was not even born then ! ”

''Oh, yes!” rejoined the recluse, "you must have been
born. You had a liand in it. She would have been
about your age ! There 1 For fifteen years I have been
in this hole ; for fifteen years I have suffered ; for fifteen
years I have prayed; for fifteen years I have dashed my

380

NOTRE-DAME.

head against these four walls, I tell you, 't was the
gypsies who stole her from me, — do you hear ? — and who
gnawed her bones. Have you a heart ? Fancy what it
is to have a child who plays at your knee; a child who
sucks your breast ; a child who sleeps in your arms.
It is such a helpless, innocent thing! Well, that, —
that ’s what they took from me, what they killed for
me 1 The good God knows it well I Now, it is my
turn ; I will slaughter the Egyptians. Oh, how I would
bite you, if the bars did not prevent me! My head is
too big to pass through them ! Poor little thing 1 tliey
took her while she slept! And if they waked her when
they snatched her up, all her shrieks were vain ; I was
not there! Ah! gypsy mothers, you ate my child!
Come, look at yours!”

Then she began to laugh, or gnash her teeth, for the two
things were inuch the same in that frenzied face. Dawn
was at hand. An aslien light fointly illumined the scene,
and the gallows became more and more distinctly visible
in the centre of the square. Erorn the other side, toward
the Pont Notre-Dame, the poor prisoner imogined she
heard the tramp of approaching horsemen,

'' Madame,” she cried, clasping her hands and falling on
her knees, dishevelled, frantic, mad with fright, — ]\Iadame,
have pity 1 they are coining. I never harmed you, 'Would
you see me die so horrible a deatli before your very eyi.^s ?
You are merciful, I am sure. It is too awful Let me save
myself. Let me go ! Have mercy ! I cannot die tlms I ”

^'Give me back my child!” said the recluse.

' Mercy ! mercy 1 ”

THE LITTLE SHOE.

381

■“ Give me back my clnld.!'’ ■.

y Let me go, in .Heaven’s name

'' Give me back , my eliildi-” i

Upon tins, the girl sank down, worn out and exhausted,
her eyes already having the glazed look of one dead.

"Alas!” she stammered forth, ''you seek your child,
and I seek my parents.”

" Give rne my little Agnbs ! ” continued Giidnle. " You
know not where she is ? Then die ! I will tell you all.
I was a prostitute; I had a child ; they my child
from me. It was the gypsies who did ^ You see that
you must die. When your gypsy mother comes to claim
you, I shall say, ' Mother, look upon that gibbet 1 • — Or
else restore my child Bo you know where she is, —
where my little girl is ? Stay, I will show you. Here 's
her shoe, — all that is left me. Do you know where the
mate to it is ? If you know, tell me, and if it is only
at tlie otl^er end of the world, I will go on my knees to
get it.”

So saying, with her other hand, stretched through the
bars, slie showcxl the gypsy tlie little embroidered shoe.
It was already light enough to distinguish the shape and
colors.

" Show me that shoe,” said the gypsy, shuddering. " My
God ! my God 1 ”

And at the same time with her free hand she hastily
opened tlie little hag adorned with green glass heads>
which she wore about her neck

That *s it 1 that ’s it !” growled Gudule ; "search for
your devilisli spells!”

:]82

NOTEE-BAME.

All at once she stopped short, trembled from head to
foot, and cried out in a voice which came from her inmost
soul, '' My daughter 1 ”

The gypsy had drawn from the bag a tiny shoe precise-
ly like the other. A strip of parchment was fastened to
the little shoe, upon which these verses were written :

When the mate to this you find,

Her arms to thee shall ope a mother kind. ”

Quick as a flash of lightning the recluse compared the
two shoes, read the inscription on the parcliment, and
pressed her face, beaming with divine rapture, to the
window-bars, exclaiming, —

My daughter I ray dtiughter 1 ”

‘^Mother!'' replied the gypsy.

Here we must forbear to set down more.

The wall and the iron gTating parted the two. Oli, the
wall i" cried tlie recluse. Oh, to see her and not to kiss
her I Your hand ! your hand ! ''

The girl put her arm through the window ; the recluse
threw herself upon the hand, pressed her lips to it, and
stood lost in that kiss, the only sign of life being an occa-
sional sob which heaved her bosom. Yet she wept torrents
of tears in silence, in the darkness, like rain falling in the
night. The poor mother poured out in floods upon that
idolized hand the dark, deep fountain of tears within her
heart, into which all her grief had filtered, drop by drop,
for fifteen years.

Suddenly slie rose, flung her long gray hair back from
her face, and without a word began to shake the bars of

THE LITTLE SttOE.

383

her cell more fiercely than a lioness. They held firm.
Then she brought from one corner a large paving-stone
which served her as a pillow, and hurled it against them
with such violence that one of them broke, flashing count-
less sparks. A second bio utterly destroyed the old iron
cross which barricaded her window. Then with both
hands she pulled out and demolished the rusty fragments.
There are moments when a v’oman’s hands seem endowed
with supernatural strength.

A passage being cleared, — and it took less than a
minute to do the work, — she seized her daughter by the
waist and dragged her into the cell. Come, let me draw
you out of the abyss!” she murmured.

When her daughter was in the cell, she placed her
gently on tlie ground, tlien took her up again, and bearmg
her in her arras as if she were still her little Agnfes, she
paced to and fro in the narrow space, frantic, mad with
joy, singing, shouting, kissing her daughter, talking to Ijer,
bursting into laughter, melting into tears, all at once, and
with tlie utmost passion.

My daughter ! my daughter 1 ” she cried. I ’ve found
my daughter 1 Here she is ! The good God has restored
her to me. Come, all of you I Is there no one here to
see tliat 1 *ve found my daughter ? Lord Jesus, liow beau-
tiful she is! You made me wait fifteen years, my good
God, hut it was to make her more beautiful for me ! Then
the gypsies did not eat her! Who told me so? My little
girl ! my little girl ! kiss me. Those good gypsies ! I love
gypsies. It is really you. Tlien. that was why my heart
leaped within me every time, you passed; and I thought

384

NOTRE-DAME.

it was hate 1 Forgive me, Agn^s, forgive me. You thought
me very cruel, did n't you ? I love you. Have you
still the same little mark on your neck ? Let us see-
She has it still. Oh, how heautiful you are 1 It was I
who gave you those big eyes, miss. Kiss me. I love
you. I care not now if other mothers have children ;
I can laugh them to scorn. They may come. Here
is mine. Here's her neck, her eyes, her hair, her hand.
Find me another as lovely ! Oh, I tell you she 11 have
plenty of lovers, this girl of mine ! I have wept for
fifteen years. All my beauty has left me and gone to
her. Kiss me.”

She made her a thousand other extravagant speeches,
their only merit being the tone in which they were ut-
tered, disordered the poor giiTs dress until she made her
blush, smoothed her silken hair with her hand, kissed her
foot, her knee, her forehead, her eyes, went into ecstasies
over each and all. The young girl made no resistance,
but repeated ever and anon, in a low tone and with in-
finite sweetness, Mother!”

'' Look you, my little one,” went on the recluse, inter-
rupting each word with kisses, — look you ; I shall love
you dearly. We will go away; we shall be very happy.

I have inherited something at Eheims, in our native
country. You know, at Eheims ? Oli, no I you don't
remember ; you were too little. If you only knew Iio-w
pretty you were at four months old I Tiny feet, -which
people, out of curiosity, came all the way from Epernay,
full seven leagues off, to see 1 We will have a field
and a house. I will put you to sleep in my bed. My God I

THE LITTLE SHOE.

385

niy. God I who would ever have believed it ? I ’ve fouiul
my daughter 1 ”

'' Oh, mother I ” said the girl, at last recovering sufficient
strength to speak in spite of her emotion, ‘Hhe gypsy
woman told me it would be so. There was a kind
gypsy woman of our tribe who died last year, and who
always took care of me as if she had been my nurse.
It was she who hung this bag about my neck. She.
always said to me, 'Little one, guard this trinket well
It is a precious treasure; it will help you to find your
mother. You wear your mother around your neck/ The
gypsy foretold it 1

The nun again clasped her daughter in her arms.

Come ; let me kiss you I You said that so prettily.
When we are in our own country, 'we will give these
little shoes to the Child Jesus in the church; we surely
ow^e that much to the kind Blessed Virgin. Heavens!
what a sweet voice you have! When you spoke to me
just now, it was like music. Oh, my Lord God, I have
found my cliild ! But is it credible, — all this story ?
Nothing can kill one, for I have not died of joy.”

And then she again began to clap her hands, to laugiL
and cry, "Ho^v happy we shall be!'*

At this moment the cell rang with the clash of arms
and the galloping feet of horses, which seemed to come
from the Pont Notre-Banie, and to be advancing nearer
and nearer along the quay. The gypsy threw herself
into the nui/s arms in an agony.

''Save me! save me/ -mother j' I hear them coming!'^

The recluse turned pale.-

386

i^0TEE-t)AMl5.

‘'Heavens! What do you say? I had forgotten; you
are pursued ! Why, what have you done ?

“ I know not/' replied the unhappy child ; " but I am
condemned to die.''

“To die!" said. Grudule, tottering as if struck by light-
ning. “ To die 1 " she repeated slowly, gazing steadily
into her daughter's face.

“Yes, mother," replied the desperate girl, “they mean
to kill me. They are coming now to capture me. That
gallows is for me 1 Save me 1 save me ! Tliey come I
Save me!^'

The recluse stood for some moments motionless, as
if turned to stone; then she shook her. head doubt-
ingly, and all at once burst into loud laughter; but her
former frightful laugh had returned: —

“ Ho ! ho 1 Ho ; it is a dream I Oh, yes ; I lost her, I
lost her for fifteen years, and then I found her again, and
it was but for an instant! And they would take her
from me again! How that she has grown up, that she
is so fair, that she talks to me, that she loves me, they
would devour her before my . eyes, — mine, who am her
mother ! Oh, no ; such things cannot be ! The good God
would not suffer them."

Here the cavalcade seemed to pause, and a distant
voice was heard, saying, —

“This way, Master Tristan; the priest soys that we
shall find her at the Eat-Hole ! " The tramj) of horses
began again.

The recluse sprang up with a despairing cry.

“Save yourself! save yourself, my child! I remember

THE LITTI^E SHOE.

■^38Y'

iiow ! You are right; it is your death! Horror! Male-
diction ! Save yourself!’’

She thrust her head from the window, and rapidly
withdrew it.

''Stay!” she said in a low, curt, and mournful tone,
convulsively clasping the hand of the gypsy, who was
more dead than alive. " Stay ! do not breathe 1 There
are soldiers everywhere. You cannot go; it is too
light”

Her eyes were dry and burning. She stood for a
moment speechless ; then she strode up and down the
cell, pausing at intervals to tear out handfuls of her gray
hair. Suddenly she said : " They are coming ; I will speak
to them. Hide yonnself in this corner; they will not see
you. I will tell* them that you have escaped; that I let
you go, by my faith ! ”

She laid her daughter — for she still held her in her
arms — in a corner of the cell which was not visible
from without. She made her crouch down, carefully
arranged her so that neither hand nor foot protruded
beyond the shadow, loosened her black hair, which she
spread over her white gown to hide it, put before her
her jug and paving-stone, — the only articles of furni-
ture which she had, — imagining that they would conceal
her; and when this was done, feeling calmer, she knelt
and prayed. Day, which was but just breaking, still left
many shadows in the Rat-Hole.

At that instant tlie voice of the priest — that infernal
voice ^ — passed very close to the cell, shouting, —

''This way, Captain Phoebus de Ch^teaiipers ! ”

388

NOTRE-I)AME.

At that name, at that voice, Esmeralda, huddling in her
corner, made a movement.

'' Do not stir 1 said Gudule.

She had hardly finished speaking, when a riotous crowd
of men, swords, and horses, halted outside the cell. The
mother rose hastily, and placed herself before the window
in such a way as to cut off all view of the room. She
saw a numerous band of armed men, on foot and on horse-
back, drawn up in the Grbve. The officer in command
sprang to the ground and came towards her.

'' Old woman, said this man, who had an atrocious
face, we are looking for a witch, that we may hang
her. We were told that you had her/'

The poor mother assumed the most indifferent air that
she could, and answered, — ,

*'1 don't know what you mean."

The other replied, ""Zounds! Then what was that
frightened archdeacon talking about ? Where is he ? "

"" Sir," said a soldier, "" he has disappeared."

"" Come, now, old hag," resumed tlie commanding officer,
""don’t lie! A witch was left in your care. What liave
you done with her?"

The recluse dared not deny everything, lest she should
rouse suspicion, and answered in a surly but seemingly
truthful tone, —

"" If you mean a tall girl who was thrust into my hands
just now, I can only tell you that she bit me, and I let
her go. There. ISTow leave me in peace."

The officer pulled a wry face.

"" Don't lie to me, old scarecrow I " he replied. "" I am

THE LITTLE SHOE.

389

Tristan rHermite, and I am the Mend of the Idiig,
Tristan THermite, do you hear?” He added, looking
round the Greve, "‘’Tis a name familiar here”

‘"You might be Satan THermite” responded Gudule,
whose hopes began to rise, and I could tell you nothing
more, and should be no more afraid of you.” .

Odds bodikins !” said Tristan, -diere ’s an old gossip
for you I Ah ! so the witch girl escaped I And which way
did she go ? ”

Gudiile answered indifferently, —

Through the Rue dii Mouton, I believe.”

Tristari turned his head, and signed to his troop to
prepare to resume their march. The recluse breathed
more freely.

Sir,” suddenly said an archer, pray ask this old sor-
ceress how the bars of her window came to be so twisted
and broken.”

This question revived the miserable mother’s anguish.
Still, she did not lose all presence of mind.

They were always so,” she stammered.

Nonsense 1 ’’ rejoined the archer ; only yesterday
they formed a beautiful black cross which inspired pious
thoiiglits in all who looked upon it.”

Tristan cast a side-glance at the recluse.

'' It seems to me that our friend looks embarrassed.”

The iinfortimate woman felt, that everything depended
upon her putting a good face on the matter, and, with
death in her soul, she began to laugh. Mothers have such
courage.

‘^Pooli !” said she, '‘ that man is drunk 'T was more

390

HOTRE-DAME.

than a year ago that the tail of a cart full of stones
was backed into my window and destroyed the grating.
And, what 's more, 1 scolded the carter roundly ”

That 's true,’’ said another archery I was here at the
time.”

There are always people everywhere who have seen
everything. This unexpected testimony from the archer
encouraged the recluse, who during this interrogatory felt
as if she were crossing a precipice on the sharp edge of
a knife.

But she was condemned to a continual alternation be-
tween hope and fear.

“ If it was done by a cart,” returned the first soldier,
''the broken ends of the bars would have been driven
inward ; but they are bent outward.”

" Ho 1 ho 1 ” said Tristan ; " your nose is as sharp as that
of any inquisitor at the Chatelet. "Answer him, old
woman ! ”

" Good Heavens ! ” she cried, at her wits’ end, and in a
voice which despite all her efforts was tearful, " I swear,
sir, that it was a cart which broke those bars. You
heard that man say he saw it ; and besides, what has that
to do with your gypsy?”

" Hum 1 ” growled Tristan.

" The devil ! ” added the soldier, flattered by the pro-
vost’s praises; "the fractures in the iron are quite
fresh !”

Tristan shook his head. She turned pale.

"How long ago did you. say this affair of the cart
occurred ? ”

THE LITTLE SHOE.

391

A month, — perhaps a fortnight, sir. I hn sure I doift
remember.’'

She said it was a year, just now/’ observed the soldier.

‘'That looks queer!” said the provost.

“ Sir/’ she cried, still pressing close to the window, and
treiiibling lest their suspicions should lead them to put
in their heads and examine the cell, — ‘‘ sir, I swear it wurs
a cart that broke these bars ; I swear it by all the angels
in Paradise I If it was not a cart, may I be damned for-
ever ; and may God renounce me.”

“You seem very ready to swear!” said Tristan, with his
searching glance.

The poor woman felt her courage sink. She was in a
state to commit any folly, and with terror she realized
she was saying what she ought not to say.

Here another soldier ran up, shouting, —

“Sir, the old fagot lies. The witch did not escape
tliroiigh the Eue du Mouton. The chain has been stretched
across the street all night, and the chain-keeper has seen
no one pass.”

Tristan, whose face grew more forbidding every instant,
addressed the recluse; —

“ What have you to say to this ? ”

She still strove to brave this fresh contradiction.

“ I don’t know, sir ; I may have been mistaken. I dare
say, indeed, that she crossed the water.”

That is in the opposite dmection,” said the provost.
“ However, it is not very likely that she would wish, to re-
turn to the City, where she was closely pursued. You lie,
old woman 1” ' , ; ' /

392

NOTHE-DAME.

And then/’ added the first soldier, there is no boat
either on this side of the water or on the other.’*

Perhaps she swam across/’ replied the recluse, dis-
puting the ground inch by inch.

Can women swim ? ” said the soldier.

Odds bodikins ! old woman 1 you lie 1 you lie 1 ” angrily
rejoined Tristan. '' I have a great mind to let the witch
go, and hang you in her stead. A quarter of an hour
of the rack may wring the truth from your lips. Come 1
follow us 1 ’*

She seized eagerly upon his words : —

As you like, sir. So be it, so be it. The rack. I am
willing. Take me. Be quick; be quick. Let us be' off
at once. Meantime/’ thought she, “my daughter may
escape,”

“ Zounds 1 ” said the provost ; “ so greedy for the rack 1
I don’t understand this mad-woman ! ”

An old gray-headed sergeant of the watch stej^ped from
the ranks, and addressing the provost, said, —

“ Mad, indeed, sir ! If she let the gypsy go, it was not
her fault, for she has no liking for gypsies. For fifteen
years I have done duty on the watch, and I have heard
her curse the gypsy women nightly with endless execra-
tions. If the girl of whom we are in search is, as I
suppose, the little dancer with the goat, she particularly
detests her ”

Giidule made an effort, and said, —

“ Particularly.”

The unanimous testimony of the men belonging to the
watch confirmed the old sergeant’s statement. Tristan

THE LITTLE SHOE.

393

rilermite, despairing of learning anything from the re-
el use, iiiriied liis back upon her, and with unspeakable
anxiety she saw him move slowly towards liis horse,

'‘Come/' lie muttered, "we must be off! Let us re-
sume our search. I shall not sleep until this gypsy girl
be hanged.''

Still, he hesitated some time before mounting his horse.
Gndule trembled between life and death as she saw him
glance about the srpiare with the restless air of a hunting-
dog whicli scents the lair of the wild beast and refuses to
depart. At last he shook his head and leaped into his
saddle. Gudule's terribly overladen heart swelled, and
she said in a low voice, with a glance at her daugliter, at
whom she had not dared to look while the soldiers were
tliere, " Saved !

The poor girl had crouched in her corner all this time,
without moving or breathing, staring death in the face.
She had lost none of the scene between Gudule and
Tristan, and eacli of her mother's pangs had found an
echo in her own soul. She had heard the successive snap-
pings of the thread which held her suspended over the
al;>yss ; twenty times she liad felt that it must hi’eak, and
now at last she began to breatlie freely, and to hope that
her footing was secure. At this instant she heard a voice
siiy to tlie provost, —

“ S’blood I Mr. Provost, it is no business for a soldier
to hang witches. The mob still rages yonder, I must
leave you to your own devices. You will not object to my
rejoining my company, who are, left without a captain."

Tin’s voice was that of Phoebus de Chateaupers. She

394

NOTKE-DAME.

underwent an indescribable revulsion of feeling. So he
was there, — her friend, her protector, her stay, her refuge,
her Phcebus ! She rose, and before her mother could pre-
vent her, flew to the window, crying, —

“ Phoebus 1 help, my Phoebus ! ”

Phoebus was no longer there. He had just galloped
round the corner of the Eue de la Coutellerie. But Tristan
was not yet gone.

The recluse flung herself upon her daughter with a roar.
She dragged her violently back, digging her nails into her
neck. A tigress does not look twice when the safety of
her young is in question. But it was too late. Tristan
had seen her.

“ Ha ! ha ! cried he, with a laugh which bared all his
teeth, and made his face look like the muzzle of a wolf,
two mice in the trap 1 ”

I thought as much,” said the soldier.

Tristan clapped him on the shoulder, —

'' You are a famous cat ! Come,*' he added, where is
Heiniet Cousin ? ”

A man who had neither the dress nor the manner of a
soldier stepped from the ranks. He wore a motley garb
of brown and gray, his hair was smooth and lank, his
sleeves were of leather, and in his huge hand was a bun-
dle of rope. This man always accompanied Tristan, who
always accompanied Louis XI.

'' My friend,” said Tristan THermite, '' I presume that
this is the witch we are seeking. You will hang her for
me. Have you your ladder?”

There is one yonder under the shed of the Pillar

THE LITTLE SHOE.

395

House/’ replied the man. Are we to do the business
Oil this gallows?’’ he continued, pointing to the stone
gibbet: '

Yes.” .

''Ho! ho I” rejoined the man; with a coarse laugh eve u
more bestial than that of the provost; "we shan’t have
tar to go."’

" Despatch ! ” said Tristan ; " you can laugh afterwards.”

Meantime, since Tristan had seen her daughter, and all
hope was lost, the recluse had not spoken a word. She
had cast the poor gypsy, almost lifeless, into the corner of
the cell, and resumed her place at the window, her hands
clinging to the sides of the frame like two claws. In
this position her eyes -wandered boldly over the soldiers,
the light of reason having once more faded from them.
When Henriet Cousin approached her refuge, she glared
so savagely at him that he shrank back.

" Sir/’ said he, returning to the provost, " which am I
' to take ? ”

“ The young one.”

" So much the better ; for the old one seems hard to
manage,”

" Poor little dancer with the goat 1 ” said the old ser-
geant of the watch.

Henriet Cousin again advanced to the window. The
mother’s eye made his own fall. He said somewhat
timidly, —

She interrupted him in very low but furious tones, — «

"What do you want?” ,

396

NOTRE-DAME.

Not you/' said he ; ''it is the other/^

What other?”

" The young one.”

She began to wag her head, crying, —

There 's nobody here 1 there 's nobody here 1 there 's
nobody here ! ”

'' Yes, there is 1 ” rejoined the hangman, " and you know
it \velL Let me have the young one. I don't want to
harm you ”

She said with a strange sneer, —

" Ah ! you don't want to harm me 1 ”

" Let me have the other, madame ; it is the provost's
will.”

She repeated, with a foolish look, —

" There 's nobody here ! "

I tell you there is ! ” replied the hangman ; we all
saw that there were two of you.”

Look, then ! '' said the recluse, witli a sneer. " Put
your head in at the window.”

The hangman scrutinized the mother's nails, and dared
not venture.

'' Despatch ! ” cried Tristan, who had ranged his men
in a ring around the Eat-Hole, and himself sat on horse-
back near the gibbet.

Henriet returned to the provost once more, utterly out of
countenance. He had laid his rope on the ground, and
awkwardly twirled his hat in his hands.

'' Sir,” he inquired, " how am I to get in ? ”

" Through the door.”

" There is none.”

THE LITTLE SHOE.

397

Through the window.’’

'' It is too small”

“Then make it bigger,” angrily exclaimed Tristan.
''Have you no j)ickaxes?”

From the back of her den, the mother, ever on the alert,
watched them. She liad lost all hope, slie knew not what
she wished, but they should not have her daughter.

Henriet Cousin ^vent to fetcli his box of tools from the
shed of tbe Pillar House. He also brought out the
trestles, which he at once set up against the gibbet. Five
or six of tlie provost’s men armed themselves with picks
and levers, and Tristan moved towards the window with
them.

“ Old woman,” said the provost in a stern voice, " sur-
render that girl with a good grace.”

She looked at him like one who does not understand.

“ S’blood ! ” added Tristan, “ why should you prevent
that witch from being hanged, as it pleases the king?”

The wretched woman began to laugh wildly.

“ Wliy ? She is my daughter ! ”

The tone in which she uttered that word made even
Henriot Cousin shudder.

“ [. am sorry,” replied the provost, “ but it is the king’s
good pleasure.”

She shrieked with redoubled laughter, —

“ Wliat is your king to me ? I tell you she is my
daughter 1 ”

“Make a hole in the wall,’ said Tristan.

It 'Was only necessary to remove one course of stones
under the window, in order to make an opening of suffi-

398 NOTRE-DAME.

cient size. When the mother heard the picks and levers
undermining her fortress, she uttered an awful scream ;
then she began to pace her cell with frightful speed, — one
of the habits of a wild beast, which she had acquired in
her cage. She said no more, but her eyes flamed. The
soldiers were chilled to the marrow.

All at once she caught up her paving-stone, laughed, and
hurled it with both hands at the workmen. The stone,
ill aimed (for her hands trembled), struck no one, and fell
at the feet of Tristan’s horse. She ground her teeth.

Meantime, although the sun had not yet risen, it was
broad daylight; a lovely pink tint illumined the worm-
eaten old chimneys of the Pillar House. It was the hour
when the windows of the earliest risers in the great city
open joyously upon the roofs. Some few country people,
some fruiterers going to market on their donkeys, began to
pass through the Grbve; they paused a moment at sight
of this cluster of soldiers huddled in front of the Eat-
Hole, looked at them in surprise, then went their way.

The recluse had seated herself beside her daughter, cov-
ering her with her body, her eye fixed, listening to the
poor girl, who never stirred, but murmured softly the one
word, Phmbus 1 Phoebus ! ” As the work of the de-
stroyers progressed, the mother mechanically moved back,
pressing the young girl closer and closer against the wall.
All at once she saw the stones (for vshe was on the watch
and never took her eyes from them) quiver, and she heard
Tristan’s voice urging the laborers on. Then she woke
from the stupor into which she had sunk, exclaiming, —
and, as she spoke, her voice now pierced the ear like a saw,

THE LITTLE SHOE.

399

tlieji staiiniiered as ii* all the curses which she uttered
crowded to her lips at once, —

Ho 1 ho ! Iio I But this is horrible ! You are robbers !
Do you really laean to take my daughter from me ? I tell
you it is my daughter ! Oh, cowards ! Oh, base hang-
men! Vile assassins! Help! help! Fire! Will they
thus take my child ? Then, what is he wliom men call
the good God ? ’*

Then turning to Tristan, with foaming mouth, liaggard
eyes, on all fours like a panther, and bristling with
rage : —

“ Come and take my daughter 1 Do you not understand
that this woman tells you it is her daughter ? Do you
know what it is to have a child of your own ? Have you
no mate, O lynx ? Have you never had a cub ? And if
you have little ones, when they howl does nothing stir
within you ?

Down witli the stones,"' said Tristan ; “ they are
loosened/"

The levers lifted the ponderous course of stone. It was,
as we have said, the mother's last bulwark.

She threw henself upon it, tried to hold it up. She
scratched it with her nails; but the heavy block, set in
motion by six men, escaped from her grasp and slid gently
to the ground along the iron levers.

The mother, seeing that an entrance was effected, fell
across the opening, barricading the breach with her body,
wringing her hands, beating her head against the flagstones,
and shrieking in a voice hoarse with fatigue and scarcely
audible, — -

400

NOTEE-DAME.

‘^Help! Fire! fire

'‘If GW, seize the girl/’ said Tristan, still unmoved.

The mother glared at the soldiers in so terrible a lash-
ion that they would much rather have retreated than
advanced.

''Come, come/’ repeated the provost, "Here, Henriet
Cousin 1”

No one stirred a step.

The provost swore : —

"By the Cross ! my soldiers I Afraid of a woman ! ”

" Sir,” said Henriet, " do you call tliat a woman ? ”

" She has a lion’s mane ! ” said another.

" Come ! ” resumed the provost, " the gap is broad enough.
Go in three abreast, as at the breach of Pontoise. Plave
done with it, by the head of Mahomet! The first who
recoils, I ’ll cut in two ! ”

Thus placed between the provost and the mother, both
alike menacing, the soldiers hesitated an instant; then,
making their choice, they advanced upon the Rat-Hole,

When the recluse saw this, slie rose suddenly to her
knees, shook her hair back from her face, tlien let her
thin, bleeding hands fall upon her thighs. Great tears
started one by one from her eyes ; they trickled down a
wrinkle in her cheeks; like a torrent down the bed wliich
it has worn for itself. At the same time she spoke, ])nt in
a voice so suppliant, so sweet, so submissive, and so full
of pathos, that more than one old fire-eater about Tristan
wiped liis eyes.

"Gentlemen! soldiers I one word. T must say one thing
to you. She is my . daughter, you see, — my dear little

THE LITTLE SHOE.

401

daughter whom I lost ! Listen. It is quite a story. You
must know that I was once very friendly with the sol-
diers. Tiiey were always kind to me in the days when
little boys threw stones at me because I led a light life.
Do you see ? You will leave me iny child, when you
know all I I am a poor woman of the town. The gypsies
stole her away from me. I kept her shoe for fifteen
years. Stay ; here it is. That w'as the size of her foot.
Paquette Chantefleurie, at Kheims, — Eue Folle-Peine!
Perhaps you knew lier once. That was I. When you
were young, you led a merry life ; there were fine doings
then. You will take pity on me, won’t you, gentlemen ?
The gypsies stole her from me ; they kept her hidden
from me for fifteen years. I thought she was dead.
Only fancy, my kind friends, I thought she was dead. I
have spent fifteen years here, in this cave, with never
a spark of fire in winter. That was hard to bear, — that
was. The poor, dear little shoe ! I have shed so many
tears that the good God heard me. Last night he gave
me back my girl. The good God wrought a miracle.
She was not dead. You will not take her from me, I
am sure. If it were only myself, I would not complain ;
but for her, a child of sixteen! Let her have time to
seethe sun! What has she done to you? Nothing at
all No more have I. If you only knew that I have
nobody but her, that I am old, that she is a blessing
sent down to me by the Holy Virgin! And then, you
are all so kind ! You did not know that she was my
daughter ; now you know it Oh, I love her ! Mr. Pro-
vost, I would rather have a hole through my heart than

402

NOTEE-^BAME.

a scratch on her finger ! You look like a. good, kind
geiitlernaii 1 What I tell you, explains the whole thing,
doesn’t it? Oh, if you ever had a mother, sir! You
are the captain ; leave me my child ! Eememher that I
pray to you on my knees, as one prays to Jesus Christ!
I ask nothing of any one; I am from Eheims, gentle-
men; I have a little field there, left me by my uncle,
Mahiet Pradon. I am not a beggar. I want nothing, but
I must have my child ! Oh, I must keep my child !
The good God, who is master of us all, never gave her
back to me for nothing I The king I you say the king !
It can’t give him much pleasure to have my little girl
killed ! And besides, the king is good 1 It ’s my daugh-
ter ! It ’s my daughter, my own girl ! She is not the
king’s ! she ’s not yours ! I will go away ! we will both
go away! After all, they will let two women pass, —
a mother and her daughter I Let us pass ! we are from
Eheims ! Oh, you are very kind, sergeants I I love you
all. You will not take my dear little one from me ; it is
impossible, is n’t it ? Utterly impossible I My child I
my child ! ”

We will not try to give any idea of her gestures, of her
accent, of the tears which she swallowed as slie spoke,
of her hands which she clasped and then wrung, of the
heart-rending smiles, the pathetic glances, the groans, the
sighs, the agonizing and piercing cries which she mingled
with her wild, incoherent, rambling words. Wlien she
ceased, Tristan THermite frowned, but it was to hide
a tear that dimmed his tigerish eye. However, he con-
iquered this weakness, and said curtly, —

THE LITTLE SHOE.

403

It is the king’s coramand.”

Then lie bent down to Henriet Cousin and said in a
low voice, —

Put an end to this 1”

Perhaps the terrible provost himself felt his heart fail
him.' ■ ■ ■

The hangman and his men entered the cell The
mother made no resistance. She only dragged herself
towards her daughter and threw herself heavily upon
her.

The gypsy saw the soldiers coming. The horror of
death revived her.

“ My mother ! ” she cried in tones of unspeakable
distress ; '' my mother ! They are coming ! Defend
me!”

Yes, my love, I will defend you !” replied her mother,
in a feeble voice ; and clasping her closely in her arms,
she covered lier with kisses. The two, prostrate on the
ground, mother and daughter, were a sight worthy of
pity.

Henriet Cousin seized the girl just below her beautiful
shoulders. When she felt his hand, she shrieked and
fainted. The hangman, whose big tears fell drop by drop
upon her, tried to raise her in liis arms. He strove to
loose her mothers hold, she having, as it were, knotted
her hands about lier daughter’s w’-aist; but she clung so
closely to her child that it was impossible to part them.
Henriet Cousin therefore dragged the girl from the cell,
and lier mother after her. The mother’s eyes were also
closed.

KOTRE-DAME,

At this moment the sun rose, and there was already a
considerable crowd of people in the square, looking on
from a little distance to see who was being thus dragged
over the pavement to the gallows. For this was Provost

Tristan’s way at hangings.
Fle^ had ^a mania for hin-

windows. Only, far off, on tlie top of the Notre-Dame
tower overlooking the Grbve, two men were to be seen

THE LITTLE SHOE.

4135

darkly outlined against the clear morning sky, apparently
watching the proceedings.

Henriet Cousin paused with his burden at the foot of
the fatal ladder, and, scarcely breathing, so strongly was
he moved to pity, he passed the rope around the girks
beautiful neck. The unhappy creature felt the horrible
contact of the hemp. She raised her eyelids, and saw
the fleshless arm of the stone gibbet stretched above
her head. Then she shook off her torpor, and cried in a
sharp, shrill voice, JSTo, no, I will not IT’ Her mother,
whose head was buried and lost in lier child's garments,
did not speak a word; but her entire body was con-
vulsed by a shudder, and she lavished redoubled kisses
upon her cliild. The hangman took advantage of this
moment quickly to unclasp her arms from the prisoner.
Whether from exhaustion or despair, she submitted.
Then he took the girl upon his shoulder, over which
the charming creature fell gracefully, bent double over
his large head. Then he put his foot upon the ladder
to ascend.

At this instant the mother, crouching on the pave-
ment, opened wide her eyes. Without a cry, she sprang
up witli a terrible look ; then, like a wild beast leaping
upon its prey, she threw herself upon the hangman's
hand, and bit it. It was a flash of lightning* The
hangman yelled with pain. They ran to his aid. With
some difficulty they withdrew his bleeding hand from
between the mother’s teeth. She maintained a profound
silence. The men pushed her , away with some bru-
tality, and observed that her head fell heavily on the

406

NOTRE-DAMB.

pavement. They lifted her up ; she fell back again. She
was dead.

The hangman, who had not let go his hold of the girl,
resumed his ascent of the ladder.

LA CllEATUEA BELLA BIANCO
VESTITA.

\]i /hen* Quasimodo saw that ’

V » the cell was empty, the
gypsy gone, that while he was defending her she had
been carried off, he tore his hair, and stamped witlx
rage and surprise ; then he ran from end to end of the
church in search of his sovereign lady, uttering strange
liowls as he went, scattering his red hair upon the pave-
ment It was just at the moment when the royal archers
entered NTotre-Dame in triumph, also in search of the
gypsy. Quasimodo helped them, without suspecting —
poor deaf fellow 1 — their fatal purpose ; he supposed that
the enemies of the gypsy were the Vagrants, He himself
guided Tristan THermite to every possible hiding-place,

408

NOTRE»DAME.

opened secret doors, false altar-backs, and inner sacristies
for him. Had the wretched girl still been there, he must
have betrayed her.

When the fatigue of unsuccessful search discouraged
Tristan, who was not easily discouraged, Quasimodo con-
tinued to search alone. Twenty, nay, a hundred times
he went the round of the church, from one end to the
other, from top to bottom, upstairs, downstairs, running,
calling, crying, sniffing, ferreting, rumaging, poking his
head into every hole, thrusting a torch into every vault,
desperate, mad. Ho wild beast which had lost its mate
could be wilder or more frantic.

Finally, when he was sure, very sure, that she was no
longer there, that all was over, that she had been stolen
from him, he slowly climbed the tower stairs, — those
stairs which he had mounted with such eagerness and
delight on the day when he saved her. He passed by the
same places, with hanging head, voiceless, tearless, almost
breathless. The church was again deserted, and had re»
lapsed into its usual silence. The archers had left it to
track the witch into the City. Quasimodo, alone in that
vast cathedral, so crowded and so noisy hut a moment
previous, returned to the room where the gypsy had for
so many weeks slept under his watchful care.

As he approached it, he fancied that he might perhaps
find her there. When, at the turn of the gallery opening
upon the roof of the side-aisle, he caught sight of tlie
narrow cell with its tiny door and window nestling under
a huge flying buttress, like a bird’s nest under a branch, his
heart failed him, — poor man ! — and he leaned against a.

LA CREATURA BELLA BIANCO VESTITA. 409

pillar lest he should fall. He imagined that she might per-
haps have returned ; that a good genius had undoubtedly
brought her back; that the cell was too quiet, too safe,
and too attractive for her not to be there ; and he dared
not take another step for fehr of destroying his illusion.
“ Yes,” he said to himself, “ she is asleep, or saying her
prayers. I won’t disturb her.”

At last he summoned up all his coxirage, advanced
on tiptoe, looked, entered. Empty, — the cell was still
empty. The unhappy deaf man slowly walked about it,
lifted the bed and looked under it, as if she might be
hidden between the mattress and the stones; then he
shook his head, and stood staring stupidly. All at once
he trampled his torch furiously under foot, and without
a word, without a sigh, he threw himself headlong against
the wall, and fell fainting on the floor.

When he came to his senses, he flung himself upon the
bed ; he rolled upon it ; he kissed frantically the place,
still warm, where the young girl had slept ; he lay there
for some moments as motionless as if about to die ; then
he rose, streaming with perspiration, panting, insensate, and
began to beat his head against the wall with the frightful
regularity of the clapper of one of his own bells, and the
resolution of a man who is determined to dash out his
brains. At last he fell exhausted for the second time;
he dragged himself from the cell on his knees, and
crouched before the door in an attitude of wonder.

Thus he remained for more than an hour without stir-
ring, his eye fixed upon the empty cell, sadder and more
pensive than a mother seated between an empty cradle

410 NOTEE-DAME.

and a coffin. He did not utter a word; only at long
intervals a sob shook his whole body convulsively; but it
was a dry, tearless sob, like summer lightning, which is
silent.

It seems that it was then that, seeking in his desolate
thoughts to learn who could have been the unlooked-for
ravisher of the gypsy, his mind reverted to the arch-
deacon. He remembered that Don Claude alone had a
key to the staircase leading to the cell. He recalled his
midnight attempts upon the girl, — the first, in which he,
Quasimodo, had helped him ; the second, which he had
foiled. He remembered a thousand details, and soon
ceased to doubt that the archdeacon had stolen the gypsy
from him. However, such was his respect for the priest,
his gratitude, his devotion, his love for the man were so
deeply rooted in his heart, that they resisted, even at this
moment, the claws of jealousy and despair.

He considered that the archdeacon had done this thing,
and the thirst for blood and murder which he would have
felt for another were turned in the poor deaf man to added
grief where Claude Frollo was concerned.

• Just as his thoughts were thus concentrated upon the
priest, as dawn whitened the flying buttresses, he saw on
the upper story of ITotre-Dame, at the angle formed by
the outer railing which runs round the chancel, a moving
figure. The figure was walking towards him. He recog-
nized it. It was the archdeacon.

Claude advanced with grave, slow pace. He did not
look before him as he walked. He was going towards the
north tower; but his face was turned aside towards the

LA CREATURA BELLA BIANCO VESTITA. 411

riglit bank of the Seine, and he held his head erect, as if
trying to see something over the roofs. The owl often
carries its head in this crooked position ; it tlies towards
one point, and looks in another. The priest thus passed
above Quasimodo without seeing him.

The deaf man, petrified by this sudden apparition, saw
him disappear through the door of the staircase in the
north tower. The reader knows that this tower is the
one from which the Hotel de Ville is visible. Quasimodo
rose, and followed the archdeacon.

Quasimodo climbed the tower stairs, intending to go
to the top, to learn why the priest was there ; j^et the
poor ringer knew not wliat he, Quasimodo, meant to do dr
say, or what he wished. He was full of fury, and full of
fear. The arciideacon and the gypsy struggled for the
mastery in his heart.

When he reached the top of the tower, before issuing
from the shadow of the stairs and stepping upon the
platform, he looked carefully about to see where the
priest was. The priest stood with his back to him.
There is an open balustrade around the platform of the
belfry tower; the priest, whose eyes were riveted upon
the city, leaned against that one of the four sides of the
railing which overlooks the Pont Notre-Dame.

Qtiasirnodo, stealthily advancing behind him, gazed
abroad to see what he. was watching so closely.

But the priest's attention was so fully absorbed that
he did not hear the deaf man's step at his side.

Paris is a magnificent and charming sight, and espe-
cially so was the Paris of tliat day, viewed from the top

412

NOTEE-DAME.

of the towers of hTotre-Dame in the cool light of a sum-
mer dawn. The day might have been one of the early
(lays of July. The sky was perfectly clear. A few tardy
stars were fading out at different points, and there was
a single very brilliant one in the east, in the brightest
part of the sky. The sun was just rising. Paris began
to stir. A very white, very pure light threw into strong
relief all the outlines wMch its countless houses pre-
sent to the east. The monstrous shadows of the steeples
spread from roof to roof from one end of tlxe great city to
the other. There were already certain quarters filled with
chatter and noise, — here the stroke of a bell, there the
blow of a hammer, yonder the intricate jingle and clatter
of a passing cart. Already smoke rose here and there
from the sea of roofs, as from the fissures iu a vast
volcano. The river, whose waters wash the piers of so
many bridges and the shores of so many islands, was
rippled with silvery folds. Around the city, outside the
ramparts, the view was lost in a wide ring of fleecy
vapors, through which the indefinite line of the plains
and the graceful swell of the hills were vaguely visible.
All sorts of sounds floated confusedly over the half-
awakened city. Towards the east, the morning breeze
chased across the sky a few white flakes torn from the
fleece of mist upon the hills.

In the cathedral square certain good women, milk-jiig
in hand, pointed with amaze to the strange dilapidation of
the great door of hTotre-Dame, and the two rivulets of lead
congealed in the crevices of the sandstone. These were
the only remaining signs of the tumult of the night. The

LA CREATURA BELLA BIANCO VESTITA 413

bonfire kindled by Quasimodo between the towers had
gone out. Tristan had already had the square cleared
and the dead bodies thrown into the Seine. Kings like
Louis XL are careful to wash the ^Davement quickly after
a massacre.

Outside the tower rail, exactly under the point where the
)>riest had paused, there was one of those fancifully carved
gutters 'with which Gothic edifices bristle; and in a chink
of this gutter were two pretty gilly-fiowers in full bloom,
waving and seeming almost alive in the breeze, as they play-
fully saluted each other. Above the towers, aloft, far away
in tlie depths of the sky, were little twittering birds.

But the priest heard and saw none of these things. He
was one of those men for whom there are no day-dreams,
or birds, or flowers. In all that immense horizon, which
assumed so many and such varied aspects about him, his
gaze was centred on a single point.

Quasimodo burned to ask him what he had done with
the gypsy ; but the archdeacon seemed at this instant to
have left the world far behind him. He was evidently
passing through one of those critical moments of life when
a man would not feel the earth crumble beneath him.
His eyes fixed constantly upon a certain spot, be stood
motionless and silent ; and there* was something so fear-
ful about his silence and his motionlessness, that the shy
bell-ringer shuddered before it, and dared not disturb him.
Ouly — and this was one way of questioning the arch-
deacon — he followed the direction of his glance, and in
this laanncr the eye of the unfortunate deaf man fell upon

'If I® gsi-S"

414

NOTRE-DAME.

Thus he saw what the priest was watching. The ladder
was reared beside the permanent gallows. Tliere were
a few people in the square, and a number of soldiers, A
mail dragged across the pavement a white object to which
something black was fastened. This man stopped at the
foot of the gallows.

At this point something took place which Quasimodo
could not quite make out. Not because his one eye had
not retained its great range, but there was a knot of sol-
diers which hindered him from seeing everything. Besides,
at this instant the sun rose, and such a flood of liglit burst
from the horizon that it seemed as if every pinnacle in I\iris,
wspires, chimneys, and gables, were set on fire at once.

Meantime, the man continued to climb the ladder.
Then Quasimodo saw him again distinctly. He had a
woman across his shoulder, — a young girl dressed in
white ; this girl had a knotted rope around her neck.
Quasimodo recognized her.

It was she 1

The man reached the top of the ladder. There he ar-
ranged the noose. Here the priest, to see the better, knelt
upon tlie balustrade.

All at once the man pushed the ladder quickly from
him with his heel; and Quasimodo, who had scarcely
breathed for some moments past, saw the unfortunate girl
dangling from the end of the rope, a dozen feet from tlie
ground, the man; crouching above her, pressing his feet
against lier shoulders to weigh her down. • The rope re-
volved rapidly several times, and Quasimodo saw a horri-
ble shudder' run through the gypsy’s frame. The priest.

LA CJREATUHA BELLA BIANCO VESTITA. 415

Oil bis xiart, witli outstretched neck and starting eyes,
watched that dreadful group of man and girl, — of the
spider and the fly.

At the most awful moment a demoniac laugh — a
laugh impossible to a Inere mail — broke from the livid
lips of the priest. Quasimodo did not hear this laughter,
but he saw it.

The ringer shrank back a few paces behind the arch-
deacon, and then, suddenly rushing furiously upon him,
wdth his huge hands he hurled Don Claude into the
abyss over which he leaned.

The priest cried, “Damnation!” and fell.

The gutter below arrested his fall. He clung to it %vith
desperate hands, and, as he opened his mouth for a second
shriek, he saw, looking over the edge of the balustrade,
above his head, the terrible, avenging face of Quasimodo.

Then he was silent.

The abyss was beneath him. A fall of more than two
hundred feet, — and the pavement.

In this dreadful situation the archdeacon said not a
word, littered not a groan. He merely writhed about the
gutter, making incredible efforts to climb up it, but his
hands had no grip upon the granite, his feet scratched the
blackened wall without finding a foothold. Those who
have visited the towers of Hotre-Dame know that the
stone projects directly below the balustrade. It was
against this swell that the wretched archdeacon exhausted
himself in frantic struggles. He was working, not upon
a perpendicular wall, but upon a wall which sloped away
from beneath him.

416

NOTEE-DAME.

Quasimodo had only to stretch forth his hand to save
him from the gulf ; but he did not even look at him. He
looked at the Greve ; he looked at the gibbet ; he looked
at the gypsy girl.

The deaf man leaned his elbows on the railing, in tlie
very place where the archdeacon had been the moment
previous, and there, never removing his gaze from the
only object which at this instant existed for him, he
stood motionless and mute as if struck by liglitniiig, and
a river of tears flowed silently from that eye which until
then had shed but a single tear.

Meantime, the archdeacon gasped. His bald head
streamed with perspiration, his nails bled against the
stone, his knees were flayed against the wall.

He heard his cassock, by^which he hung to the spout,
crack and rip at every jerk that he gave it. To complete
his misfortunes, this spout terminated in a leaden pipe
which was bending beneath the weight of his body. The
archdeacon felt this pipe slowly giving way. The miser-
able creature said to himself that when his cassock was
torn through, when the lead bent completely, he must fall ;
and terror took possession of him. Sometimes he gazed
wildly at a sort of narrow platform some ten feet below
him, formed by certain carviugs which jutted out; and
he implored Heaven, from the deptlis of Iiis distressed
soul, to permit him to end his life upon that space two
feet square, were it to last a hundred years. Once he
looked down into the abyss, into tlie square ; wlien
he raised his head his eyes were sliut and his hair
was erect.

LA CEEATURA BELLA BIANCO VESTITA. 417

There was something frightful in the silence of the two
men. While the archdeacon, a few feet beneath him, “was
agonizing in this horrible fashion, Quasimodo wept, and
w^atched the Gihve.

The archdeacon, seeing that all his struggles merely
weakened the frail support which remained to him, re-
solved to move no more. He clung there, hugging the
gutter, scarcely breathing, never stirring, his only move-
ment being that mechanical heaving of the chest expe-
rienced in dreams when we tliiiik that we are falling. His
eyes were fixed in a wide stare of anguish and amaze.
Little by little, however, he lost ground ; his fingers slipped
from the spout ; the feebleness of his arms and the weight
of his body increased more and more. The bending lead
which supported him, every moment inclined a notch
nearer to the abyss.

He saw below him a fearful sight, — the roof of Saint-
Jean le Eond as small as a card bent double. He gazed,
one after another, at the impassive sculptures on the tower,
like him suspended over the precipice, but without terror
for themselves or pity for him. All around him was of
stone : before his eyes, gaping monsters ; below, far down
in the square, the pavement ; above his head, Quasimodo
weeping.

Groups of curious citizens had gathered in the square,
calmly trying to guess what inaniier of madman it might
be who amused himself in so strange a manner. The
priest heard them say, — for their voices reached him
clear and shrill, — But he will break his neck!’'

Quasimodo was weeping.

NOTRE^DAME.

At last the archdeacon, foaming with rage and fright,
knew that all was in vain* However, he summoned up

remaining strengtli for a
' ' '■ ’ final effort. He braced liiin-

self against the gutter, set
his knees agaii)st tlie wall,
hooked his hands into a chink in the stones, and succeeded
ill climbizig up perhaps a foot ; but this struggl(3 made the
leaden pipe upon which he hung, bend suddenly. With

LA CREATUEA BELLA BIANCO VESTITA.

the same effort his cassock tore apart. Then, feeling that
everything had failed him, his stiffened and trembling
hands alone retaining a hold upon anything, the unfor-
tunate wretch closed his eyes and loosed his grasp of the
gutter. He fell.

Quasimodo watched him fall.

A fall from such a heigiit is seldom perpendicular.
Tlie archdeacon, launched into space, at lirst fell head
downward, with outstretched arms; then he rolled over
and over several times; the wind wafted him to the
roof of a house, where the unhappy man broke some of
his bones. Still, he was not dead wlien he landed there.
The ringer saw him make another effort to clutch the
gable with his nails ; but the slope was too steep, and his
strengtli was exhausted. He slid rapidly down the roof,
like a loose tile, and rebounded to the pavement. There,
he ceased to move.

Quasimodo then raised his eye to the gypsy, whose body
he could sec, as it swung from the gibbet, quivering be-
neatli its white gown in the last death-throes; then he
again lo\^'erecl it to the archdeacon, stretched at the foot of
the tower, without a trace of human shape, and he said,
with a sob which heaved his mighty breast, “ Oh, all that
I ever loved ! ”

MAIIKIAGE OF PHCBBUS.

T owards evening of the same day,

when the bishop’s officers came to. ^
remove the mangled body of the archdeacon from the
pavement, Quasimodo had vanished from ISrotre-Dame.

Many rumors were life concerning the accident. No
one doubted that the day had come when, according to
their compact, Quasimodo — that is to say the Devil —
was to carry off Claude Frollo, — that is to say the sor”
cerer. It was supposed that he had destroyed the body
in taking the soul, as a monkey cracks the shell to eat
the nut.

Accordingly the archdeacon was not buried in conse-
crated ground.

MARRIAGE OE PHCEBUS.

421

Louis XL died in the following year, in the month of ^
August, 1483.

As for Pierre Gringoire, he contrived to save the goat,
and he achieved some success as a tragic author. It seems
that after dipping into astrology, philosophy, architecture,
hermetics, and all manner of follies, he returned to writ-
ing tragedies, the most foolish of all things. This he
called making a tragic end.’' In regard to his dramatic
triumphs, we read in 1483, in the Accounts of the Ordi-
nary : To Jehan Marchand and Pierre Gringoire, carpen-
ter and composer,, who made and composed the mystery
performed at the Ohatelet in Paris, on the entry of the
legate, ordered the personages, dressed and habited the
same as the said mystery required, and likewise made
the necessary scaffoldings for the same, one hundred
pounds.”

• Phoebus de Chflteaupers also came to a tragic end : he
married.

MAERIAGE 01 QUASIMODO.

TTS 7E have already said that Quasimodo disappeared
’ ^ from Notre-Dame on the day of the death of the
gypsy and the archdeacon. Indeed,, he was never seen
again ; no one knew what became of him.

During the night following the execution of Esmeralda,
the hangman’s assistants took down her body from the
gibbet, and carried it, as was customary, to the vaults at
Montfaucon.

Montfaucon, as Sauval states, was “the most ancient
and most superb gibbet in the kingdom.” Between the
suburbs of the Temple and Saint-Martin, about three
hundred and twenty yards from the walls of Paris, a few
cross-bow shots from the village of La Courtille, at the
top of a gentle, almost imperceptibly sloping hill, yet
high enough to be seen for a distance of several leagues,

MARRIAGE OF QUASIMODO.

423 ^

was a building of singular shape, looking much like a
Celtic cromlech, and where human sacrifices were also
offered up.

Imagiiib, at tlie top of a clialk-hill, a parallelopipedon of
masonry fifteen feet high, thirty broad, and forty long, with
a, door, an outer railing, and a platform ; upon this platform
sixteen huge p)illm*s of unhewn stone, thirty feet higlg
ranged in a, (M.hjiiiuide around three of the four sides of the
base which supported them, connected at the top by stout
beams from which at intervals liung cliains; from all
these chains swung skeletons; round about it, in the
plain, \vere a stone cross and two gibbets of secondary
rank which seemed to spring up like shoots from the
central tree ; above all this, in the sky, a perpetual flight
of ravens : such was Montfaucon.

At the close of the fifteenth century the awful gib-
bet, wldch dated from 1328, was already very much de-
cayed ; tlie beams were worm-eaten, the chains rusty,
the pillars green with mould ; the courses of hewn stone
gaped widely at the joints, and grass grew upon the
jdatform whci‘e no foot ever trod ; the structure cast
a horrid shadow against the .sky, particularly at night,
wdien the moon shone feebly upon those white skulls, or
when the breeze stirred chains and skeletons, and made
them rattle in the darkness. The presence of this gibbet
was enougli to give the entire neighborhood an evil
name.

The stone base of the odious structure was hollows It
]iad been nuule into a vast vault, closed by an antique,
grating of battered iron, into, whieli were cast not only

424

NOTEE-DAME.

tlie human remains taken from the chains at Montfaucon^
but the bodies of all the unfortunates executed upon the
other permanent gallows throughout Paris. In this deep
charnel-house^ where so many mortal remains and so
many crimes rotted together, many of the great ones of
the earth, many innocent beings, have laid their bones,
from Enguerrand de Marigni, who was the first victim
of Montfaiicon, and who was an upright man, down to
Admiral de Coligni, who was the last, and who was like-
wise a good man.

As for the mysterious disappearance of Quasimodo, all
that we have been able to -discover is this : —

Some two years or eighteen months dSter the events
which close this story, when search was made in the
vault at Montfaiicon for the body of Olivier le Daim,
who had been hanged two days previous, and to whom
Charles VIII. had accorded permission to be buried at
Saint-Laurent in better company, among all those hideous
carcasses two skeletons were found locked in a close em-
brace. One of the two, which was that of a woman, still
had about it some fragments of a gown, of stuff once
white, and about its neck was a necklace of grains of
adrezarach, with a little silk bag, adorned with green
glass beads, which was open and empty. Those articles
were doubtless of so little value that the hangman had
nob cared to remove them. The other skeleton, whicli
held this in so close an embrace, was that of a man. It
was noticed that his spine was curved, his head close
between his shoulder-blades, and one leg shorter than
the other. Moreover, his neck was not broken, and it

ISIAEKIAGE OF QUASIMODO.

425 :

was evident that he had not been hanged. The man to
whom these bones belonged must therefore have come
liitlier himself and died here. When an attem]3t was
made to loose him from the skeleton which he clasped,
lie crumbled into dust.

NOTE

ADDED TO tub' LAST EDITIOS.

I T was tlirough error that this edition, was aiinoiiiiced before-
hand as enlarged by several new cha|>ters. They should
have been spoken of as tinpuhlished ; for if by we un-

derstand recently made,' ’ the chapters added to this edition
arc not new.

They were written at the same time as the rest of the %vork ;
they date from the same epoch, and came from the same idea ;
they have always been part of the manuscript of Notre-Dame
de Faris/^ Furthermore, the author docs not understand how
any one can add new developments to a work of tliis class.
That cannot be done at will. A romance, in his opinion, is
born, in a way in a certain sense necessary, with all its cliap-
fcers ; a drama is born with all its scenes. Do not believe that
tliere is anything arbitrary of which this whole is composed, —
this mysterious microcosm that you call a drama or a romance.
Grafting and soldering act unfortunately upon works of this
nature, which should spring into being at a single leap and re-
main such as they are. Once the thing is done, do not revise
or retouch it. Once the book is published, and its sex — virile
or not — recognized and proclaimed, once the child has uttered
its first cry, it is born; here it is; it is made thus; neither
father nor mother can alter it.;, it belongs to the air and the
sun ; let it live or die as it is, Is, your book immature ? So

428 '

NOTE ADDED TO THE LAST EDITION.

Biiich the worse. Never add chapters to an immature book.
Is it incomplete? You should have completed it when you
brought it forth. Is your tree gnarled? Do not attempt to
straighten it. Is your romance sickly ; is your romance to
be short-lived? You cannot give to it the breath which it
lacks. Is your drama boru limping? Believe me, you cannot
give it a wooden leg.

The author, then, attaches a particular value to this, that the
public should know that the chapters added here have not been
made expressly for this reprint. That they were not published
in earlier editions of the book was for a very simple reason.
At the time when ‘‘ Notre-Dame de Paris ’’ was printed for
the first time, the package which contained tliese three chapters
was lost It was necessary to re-write or omit them. The
author concluded that the only two chapters which would have
been important by their scope were those chapters on art and
history whose loss would detract nothing from the drama and
the romance ; that the public would be none the wiser concern-
ing their disappearance ; and that he alone, the author, would be
in the secret of this gap. He decided to go on without them ;
and besides, — to make a clean breast of it, — his indolence re-
coiled before the task of re-writing the three lost chapters. He
would have found it less work to write a new romance.

To-day the chapters are found, and he seizes the first occasion
to replace them where they belong.

Here, then, is his entire work, as he dreamed it, as he wrote
it, good or bad, lasting or fleeting, but such as he wished it.

Without doubt these recovered chapters will have little value
in the eyes of persons, in other respects very judicious, wlio
have sought in Notre-Dame de Paris ” only the drama, only
the romance; but there are perhaps other readers who liave
not found it unprofitable to study the aesthetic and pl!iIoso|)hic
thought hidden in this book, who would have been glad, in
reading “Notre-Dame de Paris,” to detect under the romance
something besides romance, and to have followed, if we may be

NOTE ADDED TO THE LAST EDITION.

429

j„iliowe<l soniewluit jimbifcious expressions, tlie system of the his-
torian Aiul the o].>ject of the artist throiigh the creation, such as
it is, of the poet.

It is to siK'li especially that the added chapters of this edi-
tion will complete ‘'Notre-Dame de Paris,” admittiiicr that

Xotre-Dame de Paris ” is worth being completed.

The author expresses and develops in one of tliese chapters
tlie actual dradine of architecture, and, according to him, the
to-day almost inevitalde death of this art king, — an opinion un-
fortunately very liianly rooted in him, and tlioroiighly reflected
upon. But he feels the need of saying here that he eagerly
desires tha.t tin* future may prove him to have been in error.
He knows that art under all its forms may hope everything
from the new generations whose genius, still in the hud, can be
hoard sjyringing forth in our studios. The seed is in the
ground ; the harvest will certainly be fine. He fears only, and
in the second volume of this edition one can see why, that the
sap has been mitirely withdrawn from the old soil of architec-
ture which during so many ages has been the best garden for
art.

However, there is to-day so much life in our artistic youth,
so much power, and, as it were, predestination, that in our
architetrturai schools in particular, at the present time, the pro-
fessors, who are detestable, make not merely unwittingly, Jmt
even in spite of tliemselves, scholars who are excellent; the re-
versij of that of whom Horace speaks, who would have

made am|)hone and produced only saucepans. Oiirrit rota,
'urmus exit.

But, at all evtmts, whatever may be the future of architecture,
in whatever way our young architects determine some day the
fjnc'stiun of their art, while waiting for new monuments, let us
k<H*p tln^ amdent ones. Let us, if possible, inspire the nation
with the love of national architecture. That, the author de-
<*!ares, is one of the , principal objects of tim book ; that, one
of the principal objects of Ms, ..life*; ■

4:30

NOTE ADDED TO THE LAST EDITION.

‘‘ Notre-Dame de Paris ” lias perhaps opened some true per-
spectives in the art of the Middle Ages, in that inarveiious art
not as yet understood by some, and, what is worse, misunder-
stood by others. But the author is far from considering as
accomplished the task which he voluntarily assumed ; he has
already pleaded, upon more than one occasion, for our ancient
architecture ; he has already denounced loudly many of tlie
profanations, many of the destructions, many of the impious
alterations. He will never cease to do so. He has pledged
himself to return often to this subject. He will return to it.
He will be as indefatigable in defending our historic buildings
as our iconoclasts of the schools and the academies are in
attacking them ; for it is a sad thing to see into what hands
the architecture of the Middle' Ages has fallen, and in what way
the bungling plasterers of the present daj^ treat the ruins of
that great art. It is even a shame for us, intelligent men who
see it done, and who content ourselves in crying out against it.
And I ^am not speaking here only of what goes on in the
provinces, but of what is done in Paris, at our gates, under our
windows, in the great city, ~ this city of letters, of the press,
of free speech, and of thought. We cannot resist signalizing as
they deserve, — to end this note, — a few acts of vandalism which
are every day projected, debated, begun, continued, and carried
out peaceably under our very eyes, under the eyes of the artis-
tic public of Paris, in face of criticism that is disconcerted by so
much audacity. They have just pulled down the archbisbo]>*s
palace, a building in poor taste, and the evil is not great. But
at one blow with the archbishop’s palace they have demolislied
the bishop’s, a rare ruin of the fourteenth century, whieli tlie
demolishing architect could not distinguisli from the rest. He
has rooted up the wheat with the tares ; it is all the same to
him. They are talking of tearing down the admirable Chapelle
de Vincennes, to make from its stones some sort of a fortillca-
tion, I know not what, of which Daumesnil has no n<‘ed what-
ever. Wliilo they repair at great expense the Bour}>on Pahuaa

431

NOTE ADDED TO THE LAST EDITION.

— that liovelj — they allow the magnificent windows of the
Sainte-Chapelle to fail in before the force of the equinoctial
gales. There has been for some days past a scaffolding around
tlie tower of Saint- Jacques de la Boucherie, and one of these
days the pickaxe will be applied to it. There has been found a
mason to build a small white house between the venerable tow-
ers of the Palace of Justice; another has been found to maim
Saint-Germain des Pres, the feudal abbey with the three bell-
towers. There will be found, no doubt, another to lay low
Saint-Germain I’Auxerrois. All these masons pretend to
architects, are paid by the prefecture, or from the royal treasury,
and w^ear green coats. All the evil that bad taste can inflict
upon good taste they have done. At the moment we are writ-
ing, — deplorable sight! — one of them has possession of the
Tuileries, another has made a deep gash directly across the
beautiful face of Philibert Delorme ; and it certainly is not one
of the least scandals of our time to see with what effrontery the
clumsy architecture of this gentleman has sprawled across one
of the most delicate fa{;ade3 of the Renaissance.

Pakis, Octoher 20, 18S2.

THE END.